


pump your veins with gushing gold

by callmearcturus



Series: to black mambo (fae AU) [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fae Jake, Fae Shenanigans, Functional Sex Addict Dirk, It's Porn With Plot Guys, M/M, Magical Inebriation, Mind Control, Slow descents into sticky sweet traps, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-08-27 07:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8392597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus
Summary: Dirk Strider goes out into the world with two goals: find something, and lose himself in the process. It works well enough until a handsome boy with bottle green eyes follows the trail of missed connections and ticket stubs right to his heart and decides to help himself to everything Dirk was determined to throw away.(Fae Jake/listless semi-sex addict Dirk, and a lot of self-indulgence.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cards on the table, I don't quite know where this is going, it's very off-the-cuff. But it revolves around the fae and how they take a shining to humans, and all the danger that implies, so if dubious consent or lopsided power dynamics are a hard no for you, steer clear. 
> 
> If you are trash like me and that super sounds like your jam: i got u. i super got u.

You have what the authorities might call a modus operandi. Or, probably not. Probably that’s the sort of thing people you read about in bad detective fiction call it. Brilliant, shining people with minds like surgical knives, who know the allure of a good word with good alveolar stops-- not the real thing.

But you were born tired of reality.

The point is, everything loops back to your M.O. though. Even that; you’re not really into what other people consider _real_ things. Sometimes you like the texture of them, the tactile feel of the _real_ world under your hands, but nothing ever catches and holds.

You turn scrap metal and repurposed appliances into creatures of ambulation and rudimentary intelligence, and give them all away before you can find yourself in their metallic reflections.

You’re accepted into four different colleges and universities with full rides. Two of them you grace with a semester of your presence. The third, you sign up for, but drop before ever stepping foot on the campus. The last never hears back from you, though you think you have a P.O. Box in Houston or Seattle or Ithaca filling up with their hopeful messages.

And, in what your pal Roxy calls a _textbook Strider move_ , you fuck your way through nine cities in a three year span.

It’s a tool. It’s as well-suited to your repertoire as a welding iron or a torx screwdriver. When you’re too full of wanderlust to settle in one place, sex is an easily formed and easily severed tether that nets you bonuses like a futon to sleep on, a sorely needed homecooked meal, or some free rides around a city. And you are ever-conscious of giving just enough to pay for what you take, leaving no guilty feelings of unresolved debts in your wake.

It comes so easily to you, the arithmetic, that you sometimes think you’ve stumbled into some sort of new science, so ingrained in you that it feels like magic. And from what you know of these things from Rox’s sister and her lascivious stories, there are several fields of magic best performed from your knees.

You have a roller bag for your laptop and essential equipment and a sturdy duffle bag with enough shirts to mask the fact you’ve only got the two pairs of jeans. Those, and the passport and phone shoved into your back pockets are all you need from the world. You feel a calm safety, wandering the world, your quicksilver smile and cut of your shoulders acting as your own passkey to the entire world, your _civis romanus sum_.

It’s not a bad life. Most days, you like it. When so little matters, it makes the things that _do_ felt all the more stark and vivid, like the times your friend Jane updated her glasses and suddenly couldn’t stop marveling over the simplistic joy of the leaves on the trees and the blades of grass, all coming out of the fog of life to her delight.

Everything slips by you like water until something, something, something finally demands your attention.

This time, you’re in Dublin for the week, and there is something that grabs you by your fucking throat and yanks you to a halt.

Something green.

 

* * *

 

Your plan is to use this godforsaken rainy fucking island as a pitstop before making your way to Amsterdam. Mostly because the timing shaved several hundred dollars off your plane tickets. So, you have some downtime before making your way to the Netherlands to pop that cherry and every other one you can in a three week period before heading south to France, but.

But, you install yourself into a pub to watch a game of footie like a good fucking tourist, taking special care not to wear _any_ potentially dangerous colors lest you wind up in a fistfight over some team you’ve never even heard of. It’s loud and inscrutable, the sound of the commentators drowned out by the unholy din of _sports_ going on around you.

You watch the soccer ball as some colorful people whack it around with their shins. At the very least, you can admire the physique required.

You drink your beer in a pint, because tourist. Doing touristy things. You’re good at this part, the essential experiences you tick off your mental checklist. Tomorrow, you’ll probably figure out what sort of arts Dublin is uniquely known for and lurk around some museums. It’s all time to kill.

Your attention wavers, meandering around the room to find something worthwhile.

You find it by accident, gaze skipping and catching through the room of flashing TV screens and tight crushes of people.

Eyes like a green glass bottle, rich and deep and holding some intoxicant you’d _love_ to get in you.

The chance of you looking through the half-full clear vodka bottles, through the shitty mirror behind the bar, through the pub and its rotting light, and actually finding someone looking right at you, meeting your eyes through all the filters is such a fucking statistical impossibility that you jerk around, turning on the stool to survey the room behind you.

But the angle’s all fucked, and you can’t track it without the distilled vision through glass-mirror-yellow light, and you can’t find the young man with the green eyes.

You’re slow to turn back around, swallowing your disappointment with a dark beer chaser, and try to focus on the game again.

 

* * *

 

 

You make it through another… amorphous segment of the game before the boredom becomes too great, and you close out your tab early and sling on your jacket. Honestly, you feel like someone’s thrown cold water over your delicate bemusement over football/soccer. But it’s not like you were invested in any of it, and there’s no ridiculous halftime shows to bribe your attention with.

So, you step out again into the night air and go to find a lamp post to prop up. You’ve only been in this town-- and fuck knows it’s not really a _city_ , not large enough for you to lose yourself in long enough to be such a threat-- for two days, and you know the vague direction of your hostel, but not the exact path there. Or at least not the best _pathing_ there. In the deep autumn night, you bite off one of the gloves you’ve only just pulled on to swipe your phone open, flicking through the cascade of apps to find where you have the address stored.

In _seconds_ , the screen dims and changes to the image of an angry flashing battery. You frown, confused as the phone fucking shuts itself off. Assuming a glitch-- you’ve heard the stories of bringing phones overseas-- you hold the power button.

The phone passive aggressively flashes its _phone needs power badly_ symbol again before winking right back out.

“The fuck,” you mutter through the glove still held between your teeth. At least you probably have a power pack on your somewhere. And it’s almost certainly maybe charged.

A voice like a bastard whiskey on sugared ice cuts through your avid self pat-down. "You look dreadfully lost there, chum."

You look up, and find spirit-green eyes watching you through dark wooden frames.

Now, this is part of the script you’ve written yourself into a million times (and how that _million_ barely feels like hyperbole). The scene is almost too perfect. You’ve played aggressive and you’ve played hard to get with equal success. You know how to pull a handsome boy (or seven, given the way bars and clubs and even some coffee shops tend to work), and have the performance memorized.

The night is cold already, and your air plumes out in one hard exhale, and your tongue fucking trips in your mouth, _wow, Strider,_ way to blow your fucking chances before you even know you’re playing.

“Phone,” you say quickly, then have the sense to give yourself a mental slap upside the head. “No, shit, I have my phone, the damn battery’s just gone off.” _Smooth_ , so fucking smooth.

Despite the remarkable uncoolness of that line, that line that’s practically the fucking savannah it’s so uncool, the green-bottle-eyed boy takes a few jaunty steps closer, his hands in the pockets of his brown leather jacket. He leans into your space, eyes solicitous on the screen.

"Rough bit of luck, out and about without your handy-dandy expensive flashlight then." His accent is strong, but not like Dublin's voice, nothing that you can immediately place, and you cautiously look him over for signs of a fellow wanderer.

“Might be alright,” you say, recovering, putting your phone back into your jeans. “Not a bad night to fuck around a foreign city.” You nod, and keep your hands to yourself, noting how this boy has no concept of personal space but keeps his hands tucked away. “Dirk.”

"Well, you do have a pointy sharp feel to you," he says, smiling. "Jake."

"Most people just accuse me of being edgy, but that's new, I like it," you say. "You from around here?"

"Unlikely," Jake says, rocking back on his heels. He has a nice smile, easy on his face. You wonder what he's been drinking tonight, what it might taste like, warmth away from the chill.

“Neither am I.” You shift against the lamp post, coking your head to the side and making a show of eyeing up Jake. Blatant interest to scare him off if he doesn’t swing your way. He fairly preens under the attention, though, biting his lip and averting his eyes shyly. He’s handsome in a way you’re not used to, not like a magazine model or anything, but a similar sort of distance from what _real_ people look like that makes it hard to tear your eyes off him.

“Not interested in the game?” you ask before the silence can stretch into something uncomfortable.

"Not really my sort of game, if'm honest. What about you? Have any plans, or have they all been thoroughly nixed by your battery troubles?"

It's as good a time as any for a _line_ , and you smirk at the blatant opening. "Well, gonna need a chance to charge it, or I'll never find my way back."

You wait, _and here’s the part where you offer me that chance._

"Would that be so terrible? It's a pretty night. Have you had time to explore a bit? Dublin's nice enough after dark, if you're into that sort of thing." He still holds his hands in his pockets, still holds your gaze with unabashed keenness.

"Are you?" You straighten, pushes off the post. "Into that sort of thing?"

"I've got lots of interests. But I think you're flirting with me?" His smile widens, and shows off sudden dimples. Christ, he’s attractive. "I like to be sure, I can be a bit slow with this sort of thing."

Holy shit. You let loose a quick laugh and cover it quickly. "Yeah, fair to say I was. Is that okay?"

"It's plum perfect. Was hoping you would." Jake steps back, looking up and down the street. Only a few people are visible, all wearing matching expressions of people who just want to get where they're going and not acknowledge the world around them. Jake nods, satisfied with the lack of audience or something. "I'm not a fan of this blasted cold and pretty eager to get out of winter's grasp. What about you?"

"Lead the way," You say. A change of location isn’t _mandatory_ but if you’re going to have some fun tonight, doing it somewhere warm would be a bonus.

 

* * *

 

 

So this is how it starts: Jake leads you down the other road, a half-step ahead and continually looking over his shoulder to ensure you’re following.

And of course you are, dutifully. You ghost behind Jake, using your long stride to take cuts into the separation between you until you’re walking at his side, close enough to see his blush as he carefully looks away from your gaze.

The narrow, tall house Jake brings you to seems to be _very_ much a home. It has the feeling of being lived in a long time, so you’re unsure what Jake meant when he claimed he wasn't from around here. But it's not important right now; passing the doorframe and out of the chill unwinds something tight in your chest, something you’ve grown so used to you forgot it was there, carried a long time, since you were last in America at the very least. Being here feels very different from the hostel. It smells like pine needles, and so strongly of burning wood that you’re surprised at the lack of fireplace. Maybe its incense or something.

You don’t have time to ask. Jake takes off his boots at the door, and watches you do the same, his eyes so steady you feel his regard like a heavy cloak being drawn over your shoulder. It’s bracing after so long out in the cold.

This is the part in the script where the handsome thing in your crosshairs offers you a drink.

Jake doesn't, just bites his full bottom lip and stares.

It’s fucking impossible not to step forward and kiss him. You’re in the tall grass now, but for once you’re willing to play it by ear. Besides, what’s the point of fucking your way across the globe if you're not going to broaden your horizons a bit?

The plan is to mack on this handsome boy for a few minutes before dropping to your knees to suck him off. It’s a good one, a foolproof plan you’ve employed half a dozen times in the last _month_. You like the attention of it, both giving and the reciprocity. There’s something almost competitive in it, the countdown to that demand for intimacy. How short a span of time do you need between giving them your name to giving them head, getting your mouth where they’re desperate for you. Sometimes, you see if you can skip the whole _names_ business altogether.

The plan, the plan, the plan. Blow this pretty boy's probably-pretty dick, maybe earn a meal in the morning, and charge your phone so you can get back to the hostel.

The plan dissolves like honey at the first taste of Jake's mouth. He tastes like mead, which doesn’t strike you as a pub standard, but it's so sweet, you can't help but curl a hand over Jake's jaw to follow the taste, trying to lick it out of his mouth.

Jake lets you, humming low in his throat as you fail to swallow your own little groan. His hands finally land on you after so long sheathed, taking your hips boldly in his grasp, pulling you in.

You’re distracted winding kisses together, unwilling to so much as pause to catch your breath. When your balance abruptly shifts, you nearly stumble but catch yourself with an arm pressed against the wall. Holding yourself up, Jake fits into the space between, giving you a bemused, apologetic look.

Unsure how that happened but… frankly okay with the rearrangement, you take the opportunity to press Jake against the solid surface, enjoying the warm crush of your bodies as you finally give into the need to breathe. Dragging your mouth away from Jake’s to exhale hard against his jaw is not a hardship.

You’re still trying to put the moves on this odd and oddly hot boy when hands touch your face, and you jerk back, surprised.

Jake’s hands are dry and warm, despite having just come in from the cold, and his fingertips trace the angles of your face with something uncomfortably close to gentleness. It almost stings, and Jake lets out a little _tsk_ noise, pecking your shocked, parted lips. “Easy there, no need to fret.”

“Uh.” You’re taken aback, and not even certain _why_. Just that this is usually your show, setting your partner of choice on edge to soothe them back into your grasp. It’s weird to be on the other side of this.

“I believe I said to stop fretting, you silly old bean. I’m not going to let anything hurt you.” He pulls you in to kiss the corner of your lips, nudging your mouth to open. You allow it, reluctant, and are rewarded with Jake’s fingers lacing together behind your neck, his palms pressed to the tendons disappearing under your clavicle. Jake smiles at you, eyes going half-lidded. “Easy, there’s a good boy.”

It is easy. Unfamiliar to you, but not _difficult_ to brace yourself on both arms, bracketing Jake and bowing down for his attentions. It should be a position of leverage, to have him boxed in, but Jake misses that memo, and takes your position as invitation to drag his hands down your neck to your collar, hooking into it with an interested hum.

He smirks. “This is in my way. If you don’t mind…” A pocket knife appears like out of the fucking ether into his palm, and having a potential fuckbuddy this close and armed should be a massive red flag planted on the fertile ground of Get The Fuck Outville, but your hands are too busy holding you up to keep a grasp of the worry and ire. And in a moment, Jake slices a clean, neat line down the front of your tee, bisecting it perfectly, and the knife's gone again.

"Hey," you murmur, annoyed. You are not made of shirts, man.

“Wanted to see you,” Jake reassures, and the way he presses his palms against your ribs feels worth the loss of a decent shirt. You can always buy another one.

Still, cool air insinuates itself, and you feel gooseflesh spread like a wave over your skin. You shiver, and bend enough to rest your face against Jake’s dark hair. The woodsmoke smell is stronger here, and you shut your eyes, inhaling deeply.

Jake’s hand presses firmly against your chest, right over your heart, and it knocks loose a quiet moan from you, out of fucking nowhere. “There it is,” Jake whispers, turning his head to kiss your chin. His fingers fan out. “Waltzin’ around like that, offering it up to everyone who catches your eyes.”

Your pulse races as you feel Jake touching you, and you don’t know why, why it makes your fists clench against the wall and breath catch in your chest, but it does. You try to look down, but Jake’s other hand cups your neck, holding you still as, out of sight, he does… does something, tracing nonsense against your chest. "Does it hurt? Holding it out to so many people and getting no takers?"

"The fuck are you talkin' about," you mutter, your tongue clumsy in your mouth. Your brain can’t piece together from touch alone what the fuck Jake is doing, but it’s sickly satisfying, like a hot knife through butter, but in your _chest_ , what the fuck.

"Oh, nothing," Jake says calmly. He stops, and helps brace you upright as your knees almost buckle in a tipsy mix of disappointment and relief. "Here, let's do something you know." And his hands settle on your shoulders, pushing down.

Sinking to your knees is a fucking balm over your fraying nerves. A lot of things running through your mind aren’t making a ton of sense, but especially that for a moment, you feared you’d be stuck like that, arms fixed to the wall and held in place by some intangible _something_. But _this_ you know. You fall gratefully and press your flushed face against Jake’s belly.

A hand cards through your hair, gripping for a moment before pulling through, and again, and again. It feels nice, and you tip your head into his touch. “Go on then,” he tells you with just enough demand in his voice.

Permission granted, all systems go. You don’t dwell on the whatever-the-fuck feeling of before and hurry to unbutton and zip Jake's jeans, pulling them open.

As far as dicks go, it's a nice one, and you eagerly taste it and are inordinately relieved that Jake just tastes like sweat and skin. Hands continue to run through your hair, and it’s so good, so comforting. It’s nearly as soothing as the act itself, gripping Jake’s dick at the base and sliding it into your mouth. It’s a heavy weight over the length of your tongue, thick and stretching your lips nicely. You let your eyes slide shut as you lap at it, getting it good and wet to make the glide fucking perfect.

"Ooh, you're lovely," Jake sighs. "Why doesn't anyone see you're so lovely? Oh, _Dirk._ ”

You hold onto Jake’s hips and just bury yourself in this. It’s always such a fucking rush, something you _revel_ in, the satisfaction of the physicality and how it feels to make someone come apart for you.

Now, Jake guides your head with gentle, firm hands, and you sink so fucking deep into the command, you can barely think through the molasses filling your head like a dense saccharine flood.

He holds you still as he comes down your throat. You sit there on your heels, swallow diligently, and slump against Jake’s leg with your eyes shut, feeling like you just took a hit of something _good_ , fuck.

One broad hand curls around the back of your neck, thumb stroking along the hairline. “That’s it. Rest up, pet. We’re not done yet.”

You want to correct Jake, warn him that suddenly you are _super_ done, but you don’t have the time to say even that before you sway and fall and slip away into warm darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

And that should have been that. An attractive boy with a good dick. It was a tale as old as time, and you’ve heard the song so many times before.

Later, you open your eyes on Jake’s sofa with a blanket spread over your shoulders. Your phone is on the coffee table, and it’s turned on. It’s battery hovers around 47%, just like it had back outside the pub. Weird coincidence.

Your legs feel like jelly, moreso than you want to test right now, so you call for a ride and quietly slip out of Jake’s narrow house. You take special care not to remember the street he lives on as you make your way back to the hostel.

A strange night, but your life’s been a loosely connected chain of strange nights for a long time now. And it’s just that, just another night like any fucking other.

 

* * *

 

 

Yeah fucking right.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

In an uncharacteristic bit of navel-gazing (and christ, you can hear your brother’s laugh-snort in the back of your mind at the _thought_ ), you can’t help but carry the bottle-eyed boy around for almost a solid day after your impromptu hook up. It’s not that you regret it, per se, because you categorically refuse to regret your one night stands, but for some reason it takes a solid day and a full night of sleep to escape the weird lingering feeling left over from Jake.

It’s like the sticky sweet thing he filled your head with just hangs around, making you lethargic and saturated calm. It’s a bit like pot mixed with pure sunlight.

For a while, you consider taking a pickaxe to your electronic piggy bank to bump up your flight to Amsterdam a few days. Why be fake high when you could get the real shit? But the cost is still prohibitive, and despite all evidence to the contrary, you are a responsible adult.

Instead, you go out and try to pick up someone, intending to gift the first pretty face you see with a good fucking time, in the literal sense.

You strike out. Badly. With about four different people. It’s vaguely humiliating, if only to you. No one else is aware of your _track record_ , that’s you’re way under average statistically speaking, but you know, and it nags you.

Back at the hostel, you stare into the mirror for an inappropriately vain amount of time, trying to figure out what’s broken and how to fix it. Then discard the idea as a tipsy engineer’s corkscrew depression, and sleep in your rented bed. It’s a deep slumber spent dreaming of the kind of sunlight you just don’t see in a place like Dublin.

 

* * *

 

By the time you wake up, the viscous fog in your head has cleared, and you are happy at how much more alert and cognizant you feel. It’s night and day, and you can think your way through this situation.

It’s a dire one, but you can handle it. Normally when you want to take in the sights, it involves the people more than the places on offer. You can make do, though, and maybe cross paths with someone interesting _outside_ your usual alcohol-accented haunts.

There’s a mist of rain falling over this town, and as you walk through the streets and past storefronts and restaurants, you keep a staid black umbrella propped against your shoulder. Dour and grey, the vibrancy of the old town feels desaturated, so much so that more than once, you assume it’s just your sunglasses with their perfect black-not-brown tint at work, only to reach up and find, no, that’s just the weather and you left them in your room.

Walking through Dublin and taking in what it has on offer, you feel almost hungry for something to fill the space in you. It’s an existential hunger, like a craving for curry or crusty bread or something substantial, less chicken soup for the soul and more beer beef stew for the soul, with dumplings and everything. Something warm and thick.

Jesus H. Dick, it was a good blowjob, but it wasn’t _that_ good, not enough to distract you like this. You have an oral fixation (and an _oral fixation_ , christ) but you barely remember the details of that night now, and it still clings to the periphery of your thoughts. You’ve got to snap out of it.

You try to fill your head with anything else, taking the time to windowshop almost every shop you pass and to read the posted menus outside every restaurant, waiting for something to grab you.0

Eventually, you pass an outdoor cafe with wide, yellow umbrellas spilling their incongruous cheerful color all over the grey street. Only a few tables are occupied, the most diehard of the caffeine addicts around. And Jake.

He's leaning on the table with both elbows, looking up at the sky from under the safety of his canopy. Held between both his hands is a wide, earthenware mug filled with something that looks perilously like hot chocolate. His chin is smudged with stubble, dark as soot, and it highlights his already handsome jaw, making him even more devastatingly alluring.

You wonder about the fucking odds as you keep your head down and walk right by the cafe, struggling to keep from hurrying along.

You make it to the next street corner before you stop, cursing under your breath, and look back.

His eyes are open and waiting for you, his chin balanced on his fist, a playful smile on his face.

Caught out, you juggle the umbrella to your other shoulder and walk back to the cafe. Jake laces his fingers, smiling beatifically as you approach his table. “I think I remember you,” you say slowly, as if you’re trying to remember. A small lie, grasping at some rational distance. It’s a better opening than the technically more honest _Hey there, can I suck you off again?_

“Oh, aren’t _we_ coy today.” Jake lifts his eyebrows, nodding to the wrought iron chair across from him. It’s a fancy ornate seat, though maybe not a comfortable one; Jake has his jacket draped over his own, padding against the harsh metal. “Would you care to sit?”

“I…” You stumble. You keep doing that with this boy. Something about those molten glass eyes.

"You look about as pleased as a cat in a windstorm, Dirk, c'mon. Let me treat you." He picks up the menu from the table, glancing over it with the briskness of someone already familiar with the selection. "What's your poison, sweetheart?"

 _Sweetheart._ No one has ever called you fucking _sweetheart_ in your entire fucking life, and it rubs against the folds of your mind like velvet against the grain. You need a moment, don’t know what to _say_ , so you duck under the canopy and snap your umbrella shut, taking the time to shake out the lingering raindrops. You sit, cautiously. Jake’s looking at you over the menu. “Surprise me,” you manage.

"Oh, I endeavor to," Jake agrees sunnily, and excuses himself just a moment to talk to the barista.

This is how you find yourself teetering between eager and anxious, sitting across from the boy that’s been haunting your waking hours as he excitedly watches you take a sip of a mystery drink.

As you feared, it’s more chocolate than anything. It’s actually like drinking a chocolate orange, the bitter base of the coffee completely overlaid in smooth cocoa and citrus sweetness. You furrow your brows, staring at the mug accusingly. “What’s in this?”

“Dark chocolate mocha with orange and vanilla syrup, pinch of cinnamon and clove, splash of milk.” Jake looks _very_ pleased with himself. “D’you like it?”

"It's... sweet."

"Are you going to sit there and tell me you don't like sweet things?" He places his hand on his chest, leaning back from the affront. "I'm wounded, deeply, a regular vorpal blade in the sternum."

You take another sip. The dark chocolate is so fucking smooth, coating your tongue, not grainy like the powdered shit. It’s good. “I didn’t say that.”

"You like it," Jake proclaims, cheering instantly. "I knew it."

"Smugness is a bad look for you."

Jake smiles, candid and edging ever closer to _cute_. He picks up his spoon, stirs his mug with it, integrating the fluffy dome of cream into his drink a bit. Lifting it out, he licks the back, tongue red and hypnotic. “Is it? That sounds like a fib, Dirk.”

It’s hard to lie to someone after having blown them, unfortunately. Especially Jake, who makes you feel like a compass pointing due fucking north. Instead, you glance away, out at the mist that’s slowly turning into a pale rain. "What brings you out here? Kind of a shitty day for it."

"I think it's the perfect day for hot drinks and fetching company." He winks. You are pretty sure that you’ve never laid it on this thick before.

"You were sitting alone."

"I'm an eternal optimist," Jake says. "Must you be so prickly? I thought we'd gotten off to a fair start, didn't you?"

Yeah. Or, what you remember of it was… pretty excellent. The details keep slipping away, though, and part of you wants a refresher. And you have the slightest inkling that Jake would be game for that.

Watching Jake lick the cream mustache from his upper lip makes you feel so unsettled, though. The boy’s eyes are so bright, like chipped glass, and so sharp you worry one of his keen looks is going to just cut into you.

You frown, and reach up to rub at the phantom sensation flaring in your chest.

“Are you feeling alright there?” Jake asks, the avaricious interest in his eyes dialing back a bit. “I admit I’m a fan of all sorts of weather-- except snow, if I’m honest and I do try to be-- but you’re some kind of tropical flower far from home. Would you like to head out with me, get out of this rain?”

“With you,” you echo, ignoring how it feels like your body’s humming _yes yes yes_ at an atomic level.

“I would like that very much.” He stands, pausing just to gulp down the last of his drink. “How long are you in Dublin for? You’re not leaving me already, are you?”

“I’m here for another two days.” You cast around for a reason to say no, or-- no, not to leave him, but to spin this around, bring it back into your hands. Being a control freak is not news to you, but the extent of it is. You’re not sure where your hesitation even comes from, only that it brings to mind your first time flying, the ultimately unsettling sensation of having your feet off the ground with no recourse.

But, you’ve always enjoyed flying, so you get up, finish your own drink, and grab the umbrella again. Flicking it open, you hold it out.

Jake smiles, a brand new flavor of lips and white teeth you want to try, bashful and pleased as he steps under. “Let’s make the most of it, then.”

His hand fits nicely at your elbow, keeping him close to you and secure under the umbrella. The heat of him is intense, even through your jacket, the singular point of contact burning like a brand. It seeps into your skin in a way that reminds you of the first burn of whiskey down your throat.

You glance aside at Jake and wonder how the hell this boy seems to be _built_ out of all the little things that have always made you slow down and pay attention, the moments you searched the world for, the R-rated version of stopping to smell the flowers. Even looking at him feels so captivating, in the classical sense.

Jake notices you looking and laughs. “What?”

You jerk your head away, and suck in a damp, cold breath. Already, you’re looking for something, you know what you want, you’ve wanted it since you spotted him sitting with his fucking cocoa.

“This way,” you whisper, and turn off the sidewalk, relieved when Jake just fucking _smirks_ and follows you down a service alley, a narrow lane of reserved space between the shops, just enough for a very thin delivery van with a very careful driver.

It’ll do, it has to, you’re a fuse burning at both ends.

Once again, you have a plan, even if you know it’s doomed to fail the moment it coalesces in your head. The plan is to shove Jake into the first alcove you find that’ll keep you both out of view of the street. Even that is risky, with the door behind you and only a few yards between you and the sidewalk. You’ve got a self-fashioned devil may care attitude but you don’t want to do time in a foreign country for public indecency with a dude. It’d be worth it to make Jake fall apart, rattle that perfect bemused composure of his and muffle his sounds with your palm.

But it’s doomed to fail. Jake beats you do it, pivoting on his heel and grabbing your lapels, falling back against the wall, right there under a crooked awning. The umbrella falls from your grip, landing forgotten in a puddle as you hurry to brace yourself.

This, again. Pulled into place by Jake’s hands, your leverage twisted against you as Jake leans up to take your mouth while you’re still struggling to keep upright. This, you remember, and it comes easier this time. Even as the bricks bite into the heels of your hands, it’s worth it for the sugary taste of Jake’s lips, the warm greedy tongue making its way into your mouth. Already you’re groaning, the sound rumbling out of your chest into this semi-private dim space.

You would not mind if it was the same as before. It’d ruin your jeans if you knelt here, but, fuck, you’ll do it if Jake wants.

But Jake wraps both his hands around your neck, his thumbs pressing hard against your neck, nails just barely digging into your jaw. You go utterly still, held upright and available for Jake to plunder your mouth as he pleases.

Even so, you need so much more. You move your hands to his hips, applying the same pressure he has on your neck to hold him flat to the wall, falling into him with a curve of your spine to grind your hips together, slow and intent.

Jake sighs into your mouth, deep and happy, drags his tongue over your lower lip like he’s tasting you. His eyes open in slits to leer at you. “Look at you,” he breathes, and cants his hips up to meet you, almost riding your thigh when you try to work it between his. You’re so desperate to get him off, single target focus, you hurriedly grab Jake’s hip, fingers digging into a fucking gorgeous ass. Closer, _hell yes_.

“Jake,” you groan.

“You’re so lovely, _oh_.” Jake squeezes your neck, a ghost of pressure that makes your hips jerk against him hard, entirely without your permission. It makes Jake smile, and his grip relaxes again. “You are _perfect_ , do you know? Has anyone ever told you? Has anyone ever _noticed_?”

You shake your head mutely. You don’t know. You have no idea.

These questions and whispered praise, they make you feel tongue tied and stupid. Part of you wishes Jake would stop, but every time it builds in you, shivering through you and edging towards _too much_ , Jake kisses you with unbearable softness, drenching the fire before it gets out of control.

Pressure and friction is not normally enough to get you off. They’re foreplay before the main event, always have been, you thought. But you are learning a lot of new things about yourself today. Mainly that there is some kind of fucking combination lock in your body that Jake’s diligently spinning with every touch, coaxing tumblers to release. The quiet bubble around you, the scatter of rain in your ears insulates you from the surrounding world, keeps you here in the moment in this precarious position, the heat against your chest pushing the chill out of your bones, all unlocking something deep inside.

You moan, clutching at Jake and trying to somehow draw him further in, fuck the laws of physics. Jake smiles against your lips. “I’ve got you, easy.”

Then, he lets you _go_ , and you cannot hold back the fucking whimpers as cool air flashes against your heated skin. You try to get him back, but he plants a hand on your shoulder. “Shh, shh,” Jake soothes. His hands slip down, then up, under your jacket and shirt. “I’ve still got you.”

His fingers press in so hard, you’re certain you can feel his fucking fingerprints. You hope they leave a mark.

He touches you, and you feel yourself fall into him, head spinning like a drunken top. A shudder runs up your spine, and seems to snip every line of restraint anchoring you. “Jake. Jake, what-- _fuck_ , please, just--”

It’s a blessed fucking _mercy_ when Jake redirects, opens your jeans with smart fingers and almost crudely shoves his hand in, gripping your hard cock. “You lovely thing, this is all mine, isn’t it?”

You nod, mouthing at Jake’s neck. “Please.”

His hand presses into your back, against your spin, solid support keeping you against him. His fingers curled around you squeeze in a steady rhythm that feels like it’s bringing your entire body into tune.

He nudges your head back up from where you’ve been hiding against his neck. "Look at me?"

You can’t say no. You want nothing more than to do whatever Jake wants, whatever keeps him close and touching you. Opening your eyes, you let Jake hold you: your body, your dick, your desperate gaze. It feels like your fucking heart is in Jake’s palms, ready to be cradled or crushed, you don’t care which.

Jake smiles and rests his forehead against yours. "Let me have you. Come on."

Your eyes flutter as you come, threatening to slide shut against the onslaught of perfect agony, but you keep them open, keep them on Jake’s perfect face as you shake and gasp through it, spilling like a toppled glass.

God, it feels so good.

It comes back, just like you remember. The feeling of thick smoke expanding in your mind, filling every space Jake’s carved out of you. It’s sweet and heady as you catch your breath. If anything, it’s _more_ this time, spreading and filling you back up as you slump against the secure strength of Jake’s body.

Fingers trace up along the back of your neck, into your hair. “You are so good, sweetheart.”

It’s so nice, it makes you shudder, toes curling in your shoes. “I can… just gimme a sec, and I’ll--”

Another gentle kiss against your face. “Now, don’t you fret, buttercup, I’ll keep.” His lips stay pressed to your temple as he starts to sway from side to side, almost rocking you. It feels sinfully indulgent, almost enough to make you feel a little ashamed if you hadn’t just came your brain out your fucking dick, jesus. “I mean, for the moment at least. I think I’l like to get a look at where you’re laying your finely groomed head whilst in this city, if you’re agreeable to that.”

It takes a moment for the words to even make sense, you’re running on CAT-4, the fiber’s offline. You take the great effort to lift your head to blink blurrily at him. “What?”

Jake smiles fondly at you and pecks your mouth briskly. “Well, it has a bed, I imagine.”

“Well. Technic’ly, yeah,” you agree, voice thick with post-coital slur.

Jake still holds you. It takes a gratifyingly long time for him to loosen his grip and let you lean away from him, as if unwilling to give you up.

"Lead the way, dear."

Sparing another thought to potential misdemeanors, you tuck yourself back into your jeans and zip up, relieved to feel Jake holding your arm. You’re dazed and almost woozy; getting off while standing has always left you a little uncoordinated after, and it’s only compounded by the floaty warmth that seems to transfer into your body at the touch of Jake’s hand. Especially when Jake slides that hand up your back, under your shirt to press proprietary against the small of your back.

You’re aware this is… something you don’t have the name for. Something that feels sealed into some ancient tome, probably lost in Alexandria, this _thing_ Jake does to you, how this boy keeps effortlessly reeling you in and without regard for how you _work_. How you learned to live and survive.

But goddamn, if he doesn’t have pretty green eyes that make it easy to give in, at least for a little while.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got one more chapter to rewrite in second person pov, then gotta write new material and have some _fun_. /rubs hands together.


	3. Chapter 3

Like a true fucking gentleman, Jake takes up the task of holding the umbrella as you lead him along. It gives you the time you need to wrangle yourself back into your corporeal body from wherever the fuck your orgasm knocked you into. For a while, you feel like it’s Jake’s hand on your back and nothing else keeping you upright.

Luckily, he doesn’t seem eager to take his hands off you.

What’s fucking weird about it, ready to be added to the exhaustive list of weird things about Jake, is the quiet that settles around you. You’re too fucking dozy to fill the silence, and Jake doesn’t seem ready to break the spell. All you have are your acute awareness of the subtle way Jake’s thumb strokes slightly up and down at random intervals and the patter of rain on the umbrella.

When you shoot him a questioning glance, Jake just smiles back.

You don’t do this, as a rule. You shake your head, refuse to even put the name to it.

Eventually, Jake murmurs, “I know this area.”

“It’s just up ahead,” you confirm, a little relieved when he breaks the silence for you. There’s a roughness to your voice, and you clear your throat. Damn. You wonder if anyone’s going to notice the sexed up aura you’re currently rocking. You’re not sure you care.

“Are you staying at the _hostel?_ Dirk, a top shelf gent like you shouldn’t be in a place like this!”

You lift an eyebrow, looking at the faint distress on Jake’s face. “It’s a nice hostel. And it saves money for me to be thoroughly fucking frivolous with later.”

The distasteful frown on Jake’s lips doesn’t shift at all. He’s pretty much pouting. It’s distracting. “Remind me, when’s that flight of yours?”

“Two more days, that’s all.” You nudge his side. “Bad hostel experiences, or what?”

“Well, it’s…” He huffs out a breath, cheeks puffing for a moment before he sighs. His free hand waves animatedly. “So many people coming and going, everyone barging into spaces, rest and recover without being _home_ , hardly a threshold to-- Oh, I just worry about you, clementine, don’t look like that. You’ve such a dear heart, and you need something solid to protect that.”

“Okay,” you say. “I think I’m still too fucked on endorphins to follow, but sure.”

That draws a quick, amused laugh from Jake, and he lets it go.

The air of vague annoyance persists as you let yourself into the hostel. It’s midday, and solidly out of tourist season. The entry hall, with its tables and dated ‘modern’ colored couches were sporadically occupied by a handful of people. The woman at the front desk looks up at your entry, and you wave and give her a winning smile. It’s practiced and perfect, and you’re reassured at how quickly she looks away from you. You’re too far to tell, but you can assume she’s blushing.

Jake makes a curious noise at your side, watching.

You shrug. “It’s just easier.”

He turns his little frown on you. You don’t know where all his concern’s coming from all of a sudden. You know what you’re doing. You’ve been doing it for years now.

The hostel has a long hallway of dorm rooms with some pricier single rooms interspersed. “I maybe wouldn’t get too excited about getting frisky,” you warn him. “I’m sharing with some older dude, and I don’t want to give the man a heart attack.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jake murmurs vaguely, and waits while you unlock the door and let him in.

It’s a standard dorm style room with four beds, each footed with a wide locker. The one closest to the door has luggage tucked underneath. On the bedside table is a bible, not even a Gideon but the guy’s own personal effect. You try not to worry about it.

At the opposite end of the room is your bed, pressed against the wall. Your stuff sits in the locker, only your shades and a bottle of melatonin sitting on the table by the lamp. “For what it’s worth, welcome to Casa Strider. At least for another forty-something hours.”

"Strider," Jake repeats softly. "That's a handsome name."

"Thanks, got it from my parents, pretty fond of it." At least your sass is returning slowly, like coming out of hibernation. Your shrug off your jacket, and stretch against the tight feeling bunched in your muscles. Standing orgasms. Not the best, long-term.

Jake sits himself down on the bed, hands pressed together between his knees. He looks you over, his frown finally fading into something softer. “I could hear your back pop from here.” You hum vaguely at him. “Perhaps you should avail yourself to the shower. Someone’s roughed you up a tad.”

“By golly,” you say, throwing on a little drawl from back home with all the ease of an old flannel. “Wonder who the culprit could be. Some fuckin’ fiend.”

“Oh, quite.” His smile is brilliant.

“And you’re… cool with waiting? Not going to catch hives over being in a hostel or whatever?”

“I’ll occupy myself. Go on, hurry.” His gaze darkens suddenly. “I’ve been rather patient, I think, but I don’t relish being kept waiting.”

Right. A _bed_ , he’d said. You don’t know how you feel about getting fucked in a communal space, but you’re not as opposed to the idea as you should be. You hurry to take out your key, unlocking your footlocker and retrieving a change of clothes, a towel, and your orange tacky flipflops.

You don’t run out to the bathroom down the hall, but it’s a near thing.

 

* * *

 

As far as your indulgences went, long hot showers were up there with on-demand orgasms, the _good_ 150 dollar headphones, and 4G on your list of favorites. They were necessities, as far as you were concerned. But being abroad meant less than stellar water pressure, much to your dismay. Between the lackluster-if-functional shower and the intent, hot boy who’d followed you back to your temporary home, you for once kept your ablutions brief. Thorough, because nothing would make you take a _fast_ shower, but efficient.

And for the first time in what could be years, you forgo blowdrying your hair. The way it hangs around your ears this way isn’t your best look, but you can live with it so long as you avoid looking into the mirror. Just this once, you can let it go.

When you’re done, you head back to your room. Instantly, you notice something odd. Jake’s still comfortable on your bed, now laid out with his hands behind his head, but the other occupied bed is suddenly empty, the garment bag, shiny shell suitcase, and good Word now missing.

Perking up at your return, Jake follows your eyes. “There you are! Missed a bit of awkwardness, didn’t you?” He swings his legs, bouncing up to his feet. “Your roommate came for his things, but didn’t know who _I_ was, ha! Fortunate he didn’t feel like turning me in for breaking some minor little hostel rules. Which is all well and good, I’m not staying here anyway.”

You frown. “He left?”

Jake crosses the room, sidling right into your space and inhaling deeply. “A spectacular bit of timing, I think. Aren’t _you_ a dish with your hair down! And you smell like sea salt, that’s dandy.”

His fingers close around your wrist, pulling it up. His nose presses against your wrist, and is followed by his _teeth_ , a careful but sharp bite against the endlessly fucking delicate skin inside your arm.

Sucking in a gasp, you stand there as Jake worries at a small point with painful little nips and stinging suction. It’s localized, just one spot, but it makes your lips part around a slow, tense exhale, and your fingers curl against the sensation, a hot feeling stealing over your cheeks.

Jake's lashes are dark against his dark cheeks, and his eyes stand out vividly, just a glimmer of bottle green focused unerringly on your face. As you watch, he holds your gaze and touches his tongue to the angry red mark he’s left. You hiss, shoulders jerking, almost hunching protectively. “Jake, jesus.”

He lets go, and your knees almost buckle under the weight of being separate from him, alone. He doesn’t go far, thank god, just grabs a chair and physically shoves it under the doorknob.

You can hear your heart racing in your ears.

The bright, strange light in his eyes gentles as he looks you over. “Sweetheart,” be sighs, entreating, sliding right back into your space, your toes nearly touching his boots. “I told you I wouldn’t let anything hurt you. Easy, there.”

Easy, easy. You’re not sure how you feel about being _easy_ , but it’s belaid when Jake touches you, and you can’t hold back the desperate noise in your throat. His hands close on your shoulders, and he guides you backward.

“I’m not,” you tell him.

"Hm? You're not what, dear?" Jake is relentless, firm.

“Easy,” you manage through a shaking breath. Your clothes start disappearing, falling to the floor in a careless fashion you’ve never fallen prey to before. But there’s no one else here, no one to worry about, and you let Jake pull it all off you piece by piece, panting softly.

The idea of being naked in front of this boy has the same quiet promise of a knifepoint skating over your skin. It’s so good, the anticipation.

You’ve already seen what Jake will do with two inches of bared skin. Now, there's a lot more.

"You're not," Jake agrees, so fucking _tender_ it makes you shut your eyes against the force of it, the heavy certainty in Jake's voice. "I don't mind."

He holds your hips steady as he divests you of your jeans and black briefs, all the clothes you’d only just put on ten minutes before. It’s all ruthlessly discarded, like its presence offends Jake. As soon as every stitch is gone from your body, Jake pushes you down onto the bed.

“ _Fuck,”_ you half-keen, unsure.

“Look at _you_ ,” Jake nearly purrs, smiling with perfect, cutely bucked teeth as his eyes drag over you. “Oh, you’re a beautiful thing.”

You whine, turn your head away.

“It’s true. Do you believe me?” His hands are hot against your legs, running up to your knees, his fingers digging in just enough to urge them up to bend. “Dirk.”

He wants you to answer. Waits you out, then squeezes your thighs, compelling.

You shake your head, exhaling hard. “Jake, I’m not. I don’t know what the fuck you think I am or where you got this idea I’m worth any of _this shit_ , but I’m not, I’m a fucking mess, I never learned how the fuck to be a functional human being. Whatever you’re seeing, I’m not it, I’m fucking _sorry_ \--”

The bed dips sharply under Jake’s knees, and his fingers slip right into your mouth, pressing down hard on your tongue. “That,” he says in a hard voice, “is quite enough of that.” He huffs, sounding… some weird mix of hurt and amused that you can’t parse. “I know. You did say, I know. You said you were not easy. But I’m very patient, sweetheart.”

You writhe as Jake drags his fingers across your tongue, letting out a faint noise that’s not quite protest. When Jake pulls away, you suck at them, and feel Jake’s surprised little sound.

They change direction and slide in deeper. You moan without meaning to. It’s just two fingers, but they’re thick, and fill your mouth when Jake presses in to the knuckle. It nearly trips your gag reflex, but you’re an old hand at suppressing it.

In a way, it's calming. That feel sneaks up on you, like decadent syrup in you head, filling you up as you sucks at Jake's fingers, following them when Jake directs, forcing your head to tip up. His other hand pets down the column of your neck, lingering over the movement as you swallow around him. "You're so good," he breathes reverently.

By the time Jake pulls his fingers away, you feel soaked in a drunk calm. Your head falls back, and you breathe out through parted lips and lick them idly for the taste of his skin.

Jake gives you a fucking besotted look, humming low and pleased as he hitches one of your legs over his shoulder. His wet fingers press against you, careful slow pressure that has you shivering down to your fucking _toes_ , moaning softly. He pushes, and you try so hard not to fight him, you do.

“You’re doing fine, buttercup,” Jake tells you, his kitschy petnames making you bite your lip. “Hm, why don’t we…”

You’re boneless and unresisting as he takes hold of your hips and rolls you further onto the bed, onto your stomach. You sprawl out and shut your eyes, breathing meditatively slow and deep as Jake arranges you how he likes. You can’t work up the urge to do anything, dripping with whatever strange alchemy Jake’s practicing on you, turning your spine to liquid gold with his hands and soft reassurances.

He pushes your legs apart and rubs against your hole again idly until the instinctive clench eases. “You’re worth every bit of it, dear,” he praises softly, one hand squeezing your ass as you shiver.

Then he bends down, and you shake as his hot breath fans over vulnerable skin. Your mouth opens into an 'o', silent exhale as one finger pushes in and his tongue flicks against the rim.

"Hm," Jake hums, and you can feel his mouth moving, and it sends the hottest, dizzying flush through your head all at once. "You smell like sea salt soap here too." He bites you, teeth pressed wide to the soft skin of your ass, and you jerk, gasping. "You eager thing."

You grasp at the bed, shame and heat flooding you like a dam cracking, because you did, you were, you thought about it in that shower, abso-fucking-lutely. “ _Please.”_

“I’ve got you,” Jake soothes again, then doesn’t say anything for a while as he works you open like that. The hot press of his tongue makes you fucking _shake_ with only one hand petting up and down your spine to settle you down. Way too soon, he leans back, taking a deep breath as he digs through the bedside drawer. “Thought so. Quite the boy scout, hm?” It’s a compliment before he uses your lube to reslick his fingers and spread you wider.

He shifts on the bed, pushing your knees apart to spread your legs wider. There’s the sound of a zipper, and you moan, burying your head against the bed as you realize Jake’s still fucking dressed. Laid out and stretched out, you have never felt more naked in your entire life, and it’s something that goes beyond the simplicity of your skin rubbing against the sheets, something _beyond_ that.

A hand digs into your hip and ass, spreading you open a bit. You can feel the soft cockhead as Jake rubs it teasingly against you. “Do you want this?” he asks, voice still unfairly even.

You nod.

"What was that?"

You suck in a breath, cottony and muffled. "Yes, please, yes, fuck me, Jake, please."

He pats your hip reassuringly. "Alright, I've got you. Just like this."

You’ve had that dick in your mouth, and know it's a good one. Thick, firm, such a pretty cock. Wanting to feel it in you again, you brace yourself against the bed, moaning again as Jake continues to tease. You’d get annoyed at the delay, but that dreamy woodsmoke feeling coalesces. You prop yourself on your elbow and stare off at nothing, waiting.

Jake leans over you, one hand firm on your hip, the other curling over your forearm. As his cocks sinks into you at fucking last, making it way in where he’s worked you wet and open, his thumb presses down on the mark left on your arm, hard.

You weren’t prepared for that and let out a struck noise, eyes snapping shut, body going tense at the sting. Jake gasps, delighted. “ _Yes_ , oh, oh, that’s it, you feel so-- so good.”

You can’t help but squeeze Jake’s cock, and are treated to Jake’s rapturously happy noises as he carefully pushes against the clench. You almost yell, the noise caught in your throat, eyes swimming. It's good, it's fucking exquisite, something you’ve never fucking felt before. A hot tear runs a track down your cheek, and you shove your face into the mattress to muffle your agonized cry.

Jake pushes, and digs his thumb into that mark, and you fucking _shake._ You endure it for as long as you can before gasping, filling your starved lungs and untensing for a second. As you do, Jake fucks in deeply, and groans as you instinctively clench down again. "Oh, that's-- you're perfect, you beautiful thing, I adore you," he babbles, kissing your ear.

"Oh my god," you whimper, drowning in the feeling. "I.... Oh, _fuck_."

Jake rocks his hips, seats himself deep, and nuzzles your hairline. "Dirk. Oh, I'm so glad I found you." He tilts his hips up into you, making you jerk and moan helplessly, eyes nearly rolling up. You don’t need to see anything, you just need this, it’s so good, it’s never been so fucking good. Jake kisses your neck, up to your ear. “Oh, Dirk. _Dirk Strider._ ”

Something deep, deep inside you rings out like struck brass. Something within you that’s nameless and not so much forgotten as never known. It hums, vibrating like a guitar string, but _everywhere_ , in your heart and woozy mind and bones and breath, all encompassing and so vibrant it threatens to rattle you apart.

You feel Jake grin against your temple.

He whispers it in your ear, over and over, a litany as he fucks you out of your _mind_ , sends you gasping and clawing at the sheets. It’s never been like this, and you’ve been fucked before and _well_ , but not this. Whatever Jake’s done to you, it feels huge, gushing hot sticky sweet from a valve in your chest, filling you until you can barely inhale against the insensate _thing_ flooding you.

You come undone, in the most explicit, literal sense of the word. Sucking in gulps of air to keep conscious, your mouth open around the long, shivery moan being pulled out of you. It’s something wild and _true_ , hidden inside, a piece of yourself uncovered by warm, sure hands and brought out to gleam in the light after what feels like a lifetime of neglect.

All to the tune of Jake's hips slapping against your ass and his whispering your name into the shell of your ear.

He comes, hot and wet, into you. and you just shiver and take it. Want more, somehow. Whine wordlessly as Jake forces you to get up onto your knees so he can draw you against him. His hand slides between your knees, and he jerks your cock twice, making you come.

You fall, fuck drunk, eyes lidded and dazed. Your body sprawls where it lands, unheeding your weak commands to move. That’s fine; you just want to wallow in this feeling for a while longer.

Jake's hand cards through your hair, sweet and gentle. "Beautiful thing." A kiss against your neck. You sigh, flex to try and lift up. You want to turn and meet his lips but… slump back down. Fuck it, that’s so not happening. Still, it makes Jake chuckle. “You just rest up.”

You nod against the mussed sheets, and sink down into that familiar place of woodsmoke and hot molasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i'm now caught up, and can start writing new shit. maybe figure out where the fuck this is going.


	4. Chapter 4

As one would expect, having what feels like your _soul_ fucked out of you is exhausting work.

When you sleep, it’s the sleep of the fucking dead. Usually when you want to get knocked out like this, you have to stay up 72 hours beforehand. Or hit that _choice_ point of inebriation before you hit the Hangover Hell threshold. Or take a Benadryl. The point being, you’re heavy like breezeblocks, like your bone marrow’s been turned to lead.

It’s not bad. If you got rest like this more often, you’d probably be off in the long run. Total shutdown, reboot. The path to get there is a little intense, though, and you’re not sure you’d survive the process on the regular.

As you stir, your legs sweep apart and back together against the sheets. The dense sated feeling in you butts against the fucking _soreness_. God, he had such a fucking great dick, you can still feel it, damn.

You don’t bother to open your eyes for a long time. It doesn’t seem worth it, and your busy taking slow, meticulous catalog of your current state. You feel so good, even through the lingering aches. They’re good aches, satisfying lowkey pain in your hips and along your arm.

Your arm. That’s the thought that rolls around in your head like a marble until it connects. You open your eyes at last, and find your arm laid languid in front of you. Just under the wrist is the bruise Jake left you, dark and shot with flares of red and blue.

Christ, his fucking thumb digging into it as he fucked you. Just the memory of it makes sticky heat curl in your belly. You turn your head against the pillow, breathing deep and slow. It’s there again. You can feel it. That metaphysical dark tree sap, green and amber and layered thick over you. Even your heart feels calm and slowed against the weight of it.

What you want more than anything is to reach down and curl your fingers around the semi you’ve got, and jerk off as the stinging in your arm lights you up with fire and sweet pain.

You roll onto your back with great effort, other hand tucking under the pillow, supporting your head. Knees planted against the mattress, you pull with your heels, bending them, before you slide your hand down under the tent of sheets.

You’re alone, no rush. Skate your fingers over your dick for a bit first, tighten your fingers right under the head and squeeze, let yourself go into whatever the hell it is Jake’s done to you. You’re teetering back and forth on the edge of consciousness, the weird aroused tranquility drenching you. It lets you slide sideways into the memory. It’s _never_ been like that before, and you want to fucking build a house there and settle in and never leave.

It almost feels like a particularly vivid wet dream, but you can feel the ache in your arm too acutely, hear your own open, needy pants, sometimes the tight exhale of Jake’s name as you wrap yourself up in it all and work yourself up.

You come at some point, and apparently slip immediately into a fucking weird post-orgasm fever dream. It feels like hours sunk into that place, one good long REM cycle of _fuck_ before you resurface again.

At least this time you can lift your fucking head out of the smoke. Damn. You don’t _think_ Jake is drugging you, but it feels similar to it. You’re so hot for him, it certainly feels like you’re being rewired, some kind of dependence building in your system.

You don't have his number. You don't even even remember where he lives. What you do have is about thirty-some hours left before your flight and a craving.

You roll your hips up against nothing and stare at the ceiling, longing.

It takes you way too long to get moving. Dressing is slow as you keep finding more little marks on your body, your hips, your neck, the rich dark one on your arm. Poking at that one distracts you for a while. You wonder how long it'll last, if it'll haunt you in Amsterdam every time you extend your hand to pick up whatever recreational material you'll be trying at the moment. Will any of them be as good as _this_?

You wince as you cover the mark with your long-sleeves. You only have the one, meant for the random times you need to dress yourself up more than a tee, and it’s butter soft and good for getting people’s hands on you. But even the Merino wool agitates the bruise more. You won’t be forgetting it anytime soon.

Which you're fine with. Or, not fine. You're not fine with _any_ of this shit, it's all so completely out of your wheelhouse, there's nothing but broken axels and shattered lumber and debris. But you are running low on time in Dublin, and you already know how you're going to spend it.

You move the chair out from under the doorhandle, and drag your fingertips along the wall as you make your way out of the hostel, imagining every slow exhale from your lips comes out a cedar-y plume.

 

* * *

 

 

Given how limited your timetable for this, your extended layover in Dublin, there are plenty of things you could be doing to make the most of it.

Fuck all of them. Instead, you retrace your steps to that cafe with the garish canopies, and you order a coffee.

There's nothing quite as pathetic as sitting alone at a cafe with a coffee and nothing to do. Around you there are kids with textbooks, a few assholes who are probably working on the Next Great Irish Novel, and some out of office business people talking into those bluetooth earpieces. You’ve got nothing, and spend a few minutes fucking around on your phone, considering the possibility of reverse navigating with its GPS to figure out where Jake lives. You don’t give it serious consideration because for one, that’d be really fukcing stalkery, and for two, as gifted as you are, you aren’t Roxy Lalonde.

You could ask her for her assistance, but that'd require admitting to her that you met someone who you...

You grimace and take a gulp of coffee, wincing at the heat. What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?

You spend long enough there, you're on the verge of giving up and going back to your hostel to have quiet freakout and maybe to call Rose to see if she wants to headshrink you over Skype. Draining the last of your coffee, you set it down hard on the metal table, grinding your teeth in irritation as you grab your jacket.

Every part of you hits pause as another mug is set down next to yours, filled to the brim and topped with fluffy cream. "You look like you could use a refill, pet."

You are so fucking relieved as you turn, looking up. Green eyes, those obnoxiously classy driftwood glasses, that slightly buck toothed smile, god.

"Hey," you manage through the tight feeling in your throat.

“Did I keep you waiting?” Jake asks. It’s friendly and nice.

Your face burns with humiliation. You’re so fucking transparent.

He hums to himself cheerfully as he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the chair, fussing over it before dragging it closer to yours and sitting. His smile vanishes as he finally sees you. Before you can think about absconding, Jake’s hand folds over your arm. Your eyes nearly cross at you feel the sting there, right under his index finger. "Dirk, stay."

Lowering your eyes to the mug set out for you, to the dark curve of Jake’s thumb as he strokes you through your sleeve, like calming a skittish animal, you nod.

"A dashing face like yours shouldn't be so downturned, peach. What's got you so sour?"

"Peach," you murmur. "Pet, sweetheart. Once, buttercup. _Seriously_?"

"Darling butterlamb," Jake adds mirthfully. You shut your eyes, and feel his fingers tuck your hair behind your ear. Holy shit, you forgot to do your hair. The urge to find a handy bridge to hurl yourself off is rising. "Tell me what's troubling you. Let me help."

You exhale hard, hand fisting hard enough your nails dig into your palm. "I..."

"Dirk," Jake says.

Your mouth opens. "I don't do this. I don't think I've done anything like this in the last... ever. And I don't know what you want from me, because you already _got_ what most people want from me, and yet here you fucking are, like I knew you would be." You bend, leaning forward on your elbows, over the full mug you haven't touched. It looks like it’s fucking delicious. You shake your head. "I'm not _like_ this, alright? I’m just waiting for you to realize that.”

Jake's face falls, and a soft noise slips from his lips. His fingers seek out yours, and force you to unfold your fist until he can curl two fingers around yours. "Most people are fools. And perhaps I am too, but I know how lovely you are. What a big bright heart you've got."

"What?" You laugh, incredulous. "Come the fuck on, man."

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. For a second, you're afraid you've messed up, offended him somehow, and can't keep your fingers from tightening against his. "Oh. You don't believe in love, do you?"

When you laugh again, it’s this uncomfortable giggle sound you can’t contain, baffled and clueless, all confusion and no humor. Jake's dark brows knit together as he watches you, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle. "Uh. I... don't know how to answer that," you say when your nigh-hysteria trails off.

Just the word makes you want to break out into hives. It's apparently obvious from looking at you, as Jake's expression continues to change into something so desperately sad, you start to feel like an asshole. Not everyone is a jaded prick at 25 like you are, damn.

Jake lets go of you, sinks back in his chair. You feel like like a physical pain. When he reaches out to spin your mug, pointing the handle at you imploringly, it helps. Any scrap of his attention helps. You pick it up, taking a sip. It's still hot, and cocoa coats your tongue. You lick cream away from your lip.

"Alright then," Jake murmurs. "It's not love. But I am awfully fond of you, and not just for your tantric talents."

"Thanks," you offer, wincing. "Uh, likewise."

He snorts. "Don't hurt yourself, lovely. But regardless, you're... on your way out of town, aren't you?"

You nod, not wanting to give voice to that looming deadline.

"Well," he says, sitting up, lifting his chin. He looks like a man facing down a storm, eyes like lamplights. "If you're so determined to leave me, at least give me today?"

You want to correct him, because this is fucking crazy, you're not leaving _him_ , that'd require you to... It'd require a lot of shit you don't think you have inside you. Never did, born defective and no one's as good at repairs as you are.

"What do you have in mind?" you ask.

 

* * *

 

 

When Jake takes you by the arm and leads you away, you have some ideas. 

Okay, you have one idea. It revolves around Jake taking you back to his place and laying you out in his bed and fucking you slow for _hours_. It seems obvious to you. You're game for it.

Instead, he takes you to a movie theater.

"My treat," he chirps, already looking much happier than the sadfuck mood you imposed on him. He holds your hand, which should not make your ears turn red, given how you let him jerk you off in an alleyway.

You’re on edge, and can’t help looking around with sharp eyes, doing your best to exude a _don’t fuck with me_ aura, just in case. Like hell you’re going to let anyone start shit with you and the pretty boy who has for some unknown goddamn reason taken a shine to you.

"You want to see a movie?" You look at the selection, half expecting this to be one of those... _artsy_ cinemas, the kind that shows softcore porn with subtitles with impunity. But no, it's the same blockbuster schlock you'd get from the AMC back home.

"I want to see _every_ movie, but we'll start with the one and see how we're feeling," Jake tells you, grinning. "Oh, there's so many, this is the hardest part. I should flip a coin. Or, hm, do they make..." He points to each of the movie listings in quick succession, mouthing to himself for a moment. "Do they make 16 sided die?"

"Not really. It goes from 12 to 20 most of the time."

You watch him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Jake is looking over the glossy posters like a kid pressed against the window of the candy store.

It's not helping the confused tight thing in your chest. Neither is his hand wrapped around yours. Every once in a while, you let your fingers so slack, in case he wants to let you go. He doesn't.

You see him staring with a little too much interest at some piece of shit you _know_ has been written by corporate committee and directed by a hack. You clear your throat and point to something a little less blatantly offensive to anyone with taste. "What about that one?"

To your relief, he seems just as enthused. "An excellent choice! No no, put your wallet away, I said it was my shout."

He keeps a merry hold of your hand as he pays for the tickets. You keep on the intimidating face, wishing you brought your shades with you; they make you look about 40% more liable to brutally finish any shit someone starts with you. But the clerk barely _glances_ at you, which is fine, but their eyes pass right over Jake at your side, which strikes you as improbable. How people avoid walking into traffic when Jake goes out for a stroll, you don't know, he's gorgeous.

You're not even aware of how fucking strung out you are until Jake murmurs, "Relax, darling."

You make yourself take a breath in through your nose, out your mouth. Twice more. "Sorry," you mutter.

"I forgive you."

Some of the tension bleeds from your spine.

Jake buys about four different types of candy and hustles you to the very back of the auditorium, right in the middle. _Best seats in the house_ , apparently.

You're busy thinking about the dark of the matinee and its potential uses. It's not a busy showing, only a few other people spaced out sporadically around the room, all pretty well out of earshot. All facing forward towards the screen, not at you.

Jake puts his arm around your shoulders, making a nearly inaudible sound at you, coaxing you against his side. It's not even a _move_ , it's a cliche, you've seduced more people than you've had hot meals and you've never pulled this John Hughes shit. You turn your head enough to look at him. He's too close, but you can catch the edge of his smile before he winks at you and kisses your temple.

You sit there for almost two hours and you watch a fucking movie.

It's not bad. You have what you'd call discerning tastes. Rox would just just call you a snobby hipster douchebag. But you picked out the nouveau Western drama-adventure because they're a safe bet. Not exactly your _thing_ (so much as you have a thing outside porn, documentaries, and the sort of pretentious shit that never reaches wide release), but it’s acceptable. Westerns tend to have solid cinematography, decent moral ambiguity, and enough homoeroticism keep your mind from wandering.

Jake seems to enjoy it enough too. He’s all rapt attention, his grip on your shoulder tightening during the shootouts and terse machismo-driven standoffs.

It ends with some alt rock shit over the credits, giving away the game, but whatever. It's fine. You're not judging it too hard.

The sky is darkening when you step back out into the chilly autumn air. It hits you that you've lost more of your limited time here to the altar of the silver screen. You try not to resent it.

Jake's nearly skipping as you walk back in the vague direction you came from. "That was top notch, I think! Ending was a bit of a downer, but sign of the genre, isn't it?"

"Music was good," you say, trying not to glare at the grey-pink sunset peeking through the rooftops. "Mimicking Morricone's standard, but it did it well."

Jake's dimples are in full force as he laughs. "How am I surprised you choose to compliment on the _music_ , Mr. Strider?"

"Should I compliment anything else?"

"Could you _pretend_ to be taken in by the movie magic?” He rolls his eyes, but looks fond of your killjoy ass. “Oh, I enjoy it so much. Best magic there is, really."

There's a weird conviction to how he says it that you can't help picking up on. Magic. Your lips twist.

Jake looks at you, playful but intent. "What's that for then?"

"You got a top five list?" you ask, low and sardonic. "Movie magic's number one. What's two? Prestidigitation? Alchemy?"

He takes your hand again, and you go quiet, your voice, and something deeper in you goes still.

"You don't believe in magic, do you?" You shake your head, mute. "Of course not. Not love, not magic." His tone is still cheerful, but a dark undercurrent catches your ear. His smile is fixed, his eyes hard. "It's a blasted fucking shame, if you ask me. How the world failed you so terribly, I don't know, but it grinds my gears to dust."

"So," you manage, having to push against the weight of quiet that’s fallen on you, like trying to speak through sandpaper. "You believe in magic?"

Jake ducks his head. "My top five, you asked? Well, I would have to say _your_ brand of magic is on the list."

"That's not magic, Jake, that's years of practice blowing people."

He snickers, cheeks darkening, smiling warmly. "Not that, though the way you turn my knees to jell-o has to be some kind of alchemy. No, I mean the other thing. They way you talk, how you move, how you look at people. It's a remarkable talent. You compel them. It's as close to magic as anything I've ever seen."

To you, it's arithmetic. You swallow against the tightness in your throat, feeling your good mood curdle. "So being a manipulative prick is magic?" you ask dully.

"It's not always manipulation. Don't be so eager to throw yourself to the wolves like some damned penance." Jake uses his grip on your hand you pull you closer, letting go to instead tuck your hand through his elbow. "There's no shame in charisma, in charm, in being a fetching thing with stunning eyes." He shoots you a sideways look, lips gently curved. "You can use it to help. So many people need help."

The implication isn't lost on you. Being in a ten foot radius of this boy makes you fucking _drunk_ off whatever it is, the literal _je nais se goddamn quoi_ he's wearing like cologne. Charm sure is a paltry word for it but you don't have a better one. Except... magic. Yeah.

He's watching you, waiting.

"Is that what you do?" you say when you finally find the words.

"I try." His eyes are so bright, even in the dark. "I promise I try."

Your mouth is very dry. "I don't need help."

His other hand lays over yours, pushing his fingers to tangle with yours. "You don't _want_ help."

"You don't know me," you remind him. If you say it enough, it has to sink in eventually.

"I know I want you."

A punch to the solar plexus would be kinder. You can't breathe, or you can't quite catch your breath. "What if," you say, trying real damn hard to ignore the tremor in your voice, "I don't want you?"

He grins at you with teeth. " _Dirk Strider_ , don't you lie to me."

You go home with him, and don't bother to pretend you weren't always going to end up following him.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact, the original version of this didn't have dirk jerking off and i was like "i will be damned before i post a single chapter of this that doesn't have orgasms in it." i know what this shit is about.


	5. Chapter 5

For the second time, you follow Jake home.

This time, you memorize the street names, try to plot a mental map as Jake tugs you along to his narrow little house. Above you, the sky bleeds purple and red as the sun truly starts to set. Everything feels transient and slipping from your grasp. Every other time you've moved on from one of your stomping grounds, you've been relieved to depart.

Now, you don't know what you think anymore.

Jake opens the door and lets you in, a hand alighting to your back to draw you inside.  "Take off your boots, hang up that jacket, make yourself at home," he tells you as he turns around, closes up behind you. Upon the door is a golden lock that Jake fixes with a golden key he tucks into his pocket when he’s done.

"I don't have that much time," you remind him.

"You can take supper with me, though." Jake gives you a stern look. "You _did_ say you'd give me today, Dirk. Were you lying to me?"

"What are you, a rules lawyer?"

"More than you know," Jake says, and divests himself of his shoes and coat. "Come on, off with it. I let you track mud in last time since, well. You were easy to forgive, I'll just say, and so distracting! But I mean it, I want you to make yourself at _home_ , and I certainly hope you don’t make a mess of your home!”

You relent, and follow suit, putting your jacket on one of the hooks next to his coat, your shoes toed off and left with about seven pairs of boots. Jake nods approvingly and wanders deeper into the house.

As soon as he’s out of sight, you take out your phone and open the maps app, tapping the screen until you’ve saved your location. Just in case.

Last you were here, you didn't really pay attention to the place. You had a habit of getting sort of single target about sex, eschewing everything around you until it was relevant to the acquisition of orgasms. Now, with Jake having vanished through a doorway in the back, you’re alone, and have time to look around.

It's very woody. The dark stained plank flooring is the real shit, not laminate, with rough eyes and ridges, fancier in all its organic imperfection. They have _character_ , some design show host would say. Thick rugs cover most of the floor, no two matching and most of them cockeyed and crooked, all weird angles that make your fingers itch to move the furniture to fix. Down here, there are bookshelves filled mostly with DVDs and Blu-Rays, and an impressive flatscreen is mounted on the wall. But otherwise, the whole place has almost a log cabin feel. You inhale, are thrown once again by the lack of fireplace given the strong burning log smell. But that’s apparently just _Jake_.

There are blackout curtains over the windows and weird Tiffany lamps around, casting colored light across the place. There's a narrow staircase up to the second floor, and the walls are peppered with hanging pictures. Some of places, some of people, all unmarked and unlabeled. They seem to be from a ways back; plenty are black and white or that desaturated sepia-tinted color, and others are lush modern high gloss portraits.

Jake leans out of the back room. Beyond him, there are shiny pots and pans hanging from a rack as well as the most overgrown garden box you've ever seen. A few bundles of herbs hang from the ceiling to dry out. "Are you allergic to anything, sweetheart?"

"Some pollen. Why?"

"Why? I'm making dinner, that's why! Honestly Dirk, have you never..." His voice fades, and he gets that tender, sad look again. "Anyway would you like a drink?"

The only things in the cabinets are coffee mugs, apparently. Jake plucks one up regardless and pours something out of the fridge. It’s pale and golden, a little like cream soda, but when you take a sip you’re punched in the face by its honey sweetness. Holy shit. Mead goes down _smooth_ , and you can almost feel the tendrils of tipsy warmth fanning out from your throat, across your chest.

"Wow," you say, leaning on the open doorway to the kitchen and looking down into the mug.

Jake beams proudly. “You like it? Topsy-tipsy, good stuff! Now, _you_.” He waves his hands at you, shooing you. “You, my esteemed guest, do not belong in the kitchen. Go relax, heavens to betsy, you certainly need it. I feel tense just looking at you.”

You lift an eyebrow at him. "Thought I was s'posed to make myself at home."

He narrows his eyes at you until you lift your free hand peacably and go, back into the living room.

The only place to sit is a stout little sofa, barely more than a loveseat. You never saw the point of sofas that weren’t long enough to double as beds. This one is _cozy_ in an antebellum way with wooden legs and a weird tweed-textured fabric, like an English professor turned furniture.

You sit down and struggle for about three minutes not to be swallowed by the fucking thing before giving up and slumping back, head at the corner, stretched out over half of it. You've got long fucking legs, but it's almost too deep for you.

You don't know what to do with yourself, really. When Jake's in sight, your attention narrows on him with pinpoint accuracy. Now, you're in his space, but he's busy and... it makes you anxious. Like you should be doing something. You never just sit around like this. How do normal people do it? Maybe you should just grab your phone and play something.

Before you have time to do more than flick through your apps, Jake reappears with two plates, his own mug of mead carefully hooked through two spare fingers. You hurry up to help him set everything down on the coffee table, and take in what he's brought.

“What’s that look for,” Jake asks, sitting down with his lap on his lap, turned half towards you on the cushion.

"You were gone like twenty minutes, how the fuck," you say, picking up your own plate. There's a really nicely charred steak with mushrooms on top, garlicky snap peas, and some roasted fingerlings with chunky salt and crispy corners. It looks and smells fucking amazing. You have no idea how he did that.

"Oh, was that... fast? Hm." He squints across the room at the grandfather clock. "No, it's been longer than that, hasn't it?”

You go to check your phone only for Jake to huff pointedly at you. You put it down on the table, and are rewarded with a stunning smile from Jake.

Maybe Jake has a point. In some ways, you are easy.

Jake makes some inquiring noises about putting on a movie, but you just shrug as you cut your food, and he subsides, seeming slightly disappointed. Instead, he watches you with very excited eyes as you eat.

You spear a piece of steak with a few drippy, savory mushroom slices and stare back at him. "What?" you say through a mouthful.

"What-what?"

"What's _that_ look for," you ask, echoing him

"Oh! Oh, gosh, Dirk, I just..." He ducks his head a little, sipping his drink. "I'm happy. Are you so suspicious of happiness?"

You shrug and keep eating. It's _really_ good food, homecooking you've not had a chance at in years now. Not since you started your meandering odyssey from city to city, anyway. It's the kind of food you can only get from someone's kitchen or from the kind of restaurants that are out of your backpacker’s budget. "I don't think I can say anything here that won't piss you off."

"Come off it, I'm not angry at _you_ ," Jake shoots back. "I'm angry for you, if anything."

"I'm fine."

Jake tsks. “If you insist on being stoic, _someone_ should take up the mantle in your defense.”

You shrug, and he gives you another fondly exasperated look.

As you finish up, stabbing chunks of potato and dragging them through the mushroom-butter mixture lingering on your plate, Jake refills both your mugs and sits next to you, his back against the arm of the sofa, knees bent in front of him, hands holding his mug atop his knees as he sips and watches you. You don't know what's so fucking fascinating about you eating like some half-starved asshole and try not to freeze up at the awkward feeling in your chest. Maybe you’re doing this wrong. You have no experience with this, not since Thanksgiving with Jane’s folks, anyway.

This is why you don’t… date. You have no idea how it’s supposed to work, and you’re probably fucking it up.

You set your plate aside, completely clean, and pick up your mug, taking a deep swig to cover the fact your hands are going to shake without something to occupy them. Besides, the mead’s so damn good, nearly cold enough to hurt your teeth but warming your chest more with every gulp.

Jake's smiling at you over the rim of his mug, his feet rubbing together. It's kind of fucking adorable, and he's so damn bright, like a sunbeam taken human form just looking fondly at you. You look away, taking a shuddering breath. You need to either be sober or much more hammered, right now, jesus.

There's a soft thunk noise as Jake sets his drink on the table. Gently, he takes yours from your grasp, setting it aside too. The sofa dips, and you reach out to brace him as he slides over you, knees planting against your sides, straddling you. Now, you can't help but meet his eyes. You settle for his neck, the rich brown of his skin, the dusting of stubble coming in. You could just lean in and drag your tongue over it. That'd be good. That'd distract him.

His fingers slide into your hair, pulling your head back, much less gently. "I can see you thinking about it, you saucy thing. You keep your magic mouth to yourself, mister."

"I can say with confidence," you reply, "that no one has ever told me that before."

He laughs, and kisses your nose. You shut your eyes.

For a moment, he's quiet, until you carefully look up at him again. You find his glass bottle eyes full of affection and heat, waiting for you.

He kisses you, chaste and soft, before leaning back again. "What has you all tangled up in knots? Tell me."

To your surprise, you do. The words spill from your mouth before you even have time to think them over. "I'm fucking confused and don't know what's happening. I don't know why you're different. I haven't... done this before."

He nods, like he was expecting that answer, and gives you another quick kiss in payment. "Perhaps that's what love feels like? Have you considered that?"

Your breath stutters in your chest. That fucking word again. He says it so damn easily, it drives you crazy. Every time, it feels like an impact, like some bruise against your insides, and you hate it. You're a grown fucking man, you shouldn't react to that word like it has cooties.

You try to turn away, just Jake's fingers tighten again in your hair, long enough to warn you before they go loose again, petting you idly. "Well," he says, taking a deep breath and sighing. "I believe in love. I believe in everything, if'm honest. I can believe enough for the both of us."

You bend forward into him. His arms grasp your shoulders for balance, but he finally lets you move. Your hands clutch as his back, holding him, and your face tucks into his neck and inhale his woodsmoke smell. It fills your lungs, and you want to hold it there, carry this part of him with you when you leave.

You think about the time, and your breath hitches.

"I should..." You don't want to say it. It makes you feel tight and pulled at the seams, the stitches starting to rip you asunder. It fucking hurts. "I have my flight tomorrow. I should go."

Jake curls around you, sliding against you and dragging you even closer against him. "Not yet. Stay the night, Dirk."

"I can't," you say, miserable. "I won't have time."

"What a load of it, sure you will." He pokes your side with one finger, hard. "I've seen it, you've got all your stuff packed up tidy in that little locker of yours. Call a cab in the 'morrow, you'll be in and out. Just _stay_." He presses his face against your hair, breathing in deeply. You wonder if he can smell the minty tea tree product you wash it with, if he's trying to commit it to memory too. "You said I could have today."

You should tell him no. But you were never going to. Leaving never appealed to you, and it’s a sick relief to have him there to tell you no. You nod against him. “Alright. Yeah.” As soon as you agree, you can feel some vice in your chest loosening, letting you take a deep breath again. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

As soon as you agree, Jake launches into motion. He grabs your chin in one hand, delves his tongue deep into your mouth, from zero to sixty in five. You are fine with this, you're finally on even ground as far as you’re concerned. You grab his ass, the sinfully plush goods he's hiding in those fucking pants, and try to push for more.

Jake hums and wiggles his hips as you grab ample handfuls, snickering. When he leans back, you try to follow; his hand on your clavicle stops you immediately like a dog reaching the abrupt end to its leash. "Not here," he says, lips wet and tempting, if he'd only come closer. "You're coming to bed with me."

You think of the last time you were in bed with Jake, and a wave of desire and aroused fear crashes into you. "Okay," you agree. "That sounds good."

Despite that, you don’t want to let him go, not even for a short moment. Jake coaxes you, taking each of your hands and kissing them until you help him climb off you, to his feet. He pulls you along, up the staircase. It’s too narrow to follow at his side, so instead you get a great view as you ascend behind him.

All the doors upstairs are shut. He pushes one open, pulls you inside with him. His bedroom, transparently; there's a queen size with an ornately carved wooden headboard, shelves filled with knickknacks, one with just a line of bleach white skulls of various animals, and what looks like the random detritus of someone with too many hobbies: half-finished jigsaws, whittling tools, some woven stuff, and what you think are some rolling papers.

Your survey of the room is brief; Jake grab the hem of your sweater and drags it up and off you. You barely have time to react before he grabs your hips and yanks you into him, his mouth on your neck. You feel the now-familiar drag of his teeth, and your eyes fucking cross as he gets to work.

This time, you grab his head, shove your hands into his thick dark locks, and fucking hold him there as he bites and sucks at you like a goddamn vampire. It hurts, but it hurts like pressing down on a scar, that content thrumming ache. You want to carry it around like a keepsake, want this one and a dozen more until you can't so much as take a step without feeling the sting where he touched you.

Your pants loosen around your hips, his fingers busy undoing your jeans. Multitasker, damn. You shimmy, trying to get them to fall down. You've never had much of an ass, so it's pretty easy. Jake shoves your boxers down right after, prodding the blooming mark under his mouth with the tip of his tongue until you hiss.

You know he could drive you mad like this, and you refuse, no fucking way, you’re not getting fucked into that weird drunken headspace and leaving him behind. As soon as he lifts his head, you go for his shirt, pulling the buttons loose. He smiles indulgently, shrugs off his suspenders and takes it off. "Eager," he chides.

"Pot, kettle, just take it the hell off, Jake."

"I had no idea it bothered you so, darling, you should've said." He strips briskly, no funny business, moving from point A to point Nudity. "I would have acquainted you with the landscape if you asked."

"There's about ten jokes about cartography or surveying here, but I don't care. _Christ_ , you're hot." You reach out, trace down the surprise ink on his chest, some vague solar symbols, ornate knots and leaves. He lets you, turning his arm for your questing touch and looking down to smile at the contrast of your long pale fingers against him and his even darker tattoos.

“Given your expertise on the matter, I’m flattered. Now, come back here." He grabs you by the fucking neck and draws you back up until he can crash your mouths together. His thumb presses enough it's a little hard to breathe, but you don't care and groan against his lips. It feels so good, like he’s personally giving you the air you need.

He bites your lower lip, and you go still, whimpering as he stares at you with vibrant green. "You," he says, pausing to kiss the swell, "Lay down. On your back."

You go, obedient and aching all over. Climb onto the bed on your hands and knees and roll yourself to the center, laying there with your dick hard, your hands closing on handfuls of the bed. Everything in your head swishes around like thick water, like fermented honey, and you strain your neck to lift your head, watching him.

Jake walks to the foot of the bed and looms there, just looking at you. He's taking you in when your cock twitches under his attention, and the way it makes him smile makes _you_ flush all over.

"Beautiful thing," he murmurs, and finally gets his knee on the bed, pulling himself up. You struggle to stay still, let him move over you. "How did no one want to keep you?"

You shiver. “I don’t know, maybe they’ve met me?”

He grabs your ankle, lifting it into the air, admiring... how long your legs are, maybe. "You're too cruel to yourself."

"You're too nice."

"I'm not," Jake murmurs, and nips at your inner thigh, bending in close and making you gasp. "Uh uh! Don't argue. I'm tired of hearing it. Tell me something else. Something sweet. Your talented, beautiful mouth, can it do that, Dirk?"

You let out a keen, shuddering. "I... Christ, Jake."

He moves closer, insinuating into your space, between your legs, and bends over to fix you with a deep, haunting look. "Dirk. Tell me... Oh, tell me something secret." His fingers trail over your neck. "Just for me."

Your back arches, tipsy heat pouring from your head down into your spine. Everything in you smoulders, the press of his fingers against you like kindling. "I don't know, Jake, I--" You almost choke, shudder through a tense gasp, your throat tight. "Fuck, you scare the shit out of me, and I can't stop. I want you all the fucking time, I'm going to leave and go through fucking withdrawl."

He braces himself over you, other hand curling around your neck. "Something _sweet_ , Dirk Strider," he commands.

Your eyes sting, and you can barely breathe. "Can't, I--"

You cast around for something. What would he like, what even counts? You don't know how to say those things. Even hearing them feels like standing in a hailstorm, rapping against your head with heft and hurt. It makes you sick, like trying to work a atrophied muscle in you.

He's waiting. He looks upset. You hate it. He’s trying to teach you something and you’re fucking it up because you’re _you_.

Your lips part, and you manage one deep breath. "I don't know how to be that, to be... sweet. But I'd learn for you, I think."

His head cocks to the side. "You would?"

"If I could, but--"

He shuffles closer. He's so warm, you want him like this forever, a barrier between you and the world. "If you weren't leaving me. Pretend. Just for a moment."

You lick your lips, parched. You wish he'd kiss you, be merciful and silence you. "If I wasn't leaving, I'd... stay? Fuck, if that was okay, I don't know--"

"And then what?" He doesn't even blink.

"I don't know. I'd... Whatever you want, I don't know, Jake, please, just. Just shut me up already, let me do something, I don't--"

Jake busses his mouth against yours. "You'd let me keep you. Let me take you to bed for days. Let me feed you. Let me take care of you." He leans in until all you can see is him, his face, his beautiful eyes. "Let me _keep_ you."

"Yeah." You shut your eyes, unable to stand it. The fucking maybe of it, the thing you can't bare to have, like it's too hot to hold. It'll burn you up just from the wanting.

"I know," he whispers, kissing your eyelids. "Oh, I so wanted to hear you say it." He laughs, soft and hushed against your cheek. He runs his teeth against your jaw. "You're so sad all the time, Dirk, ever since I first saw you, you break my heart." At long last, he releases your neck. One palm presses against your chest, hard enough you can feel your pulse against his hand. "It makes me so mad, how you break yourself to pieces, for what?"

You don't fucking know. You whine, shift against the bed, just-- just want to be quiet, no more words like broken glass. It's like he's extracting long forgotten shrapnel from your flesh, the pain only coming back in full force with every piece he gets out of you.

"Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry, Dirk." He presses his lips to your chest, dead center, lingers there for a long moment with pinpoint heat. You hold so still, not wanting to jostle him.

"Jake," you say, tense and unsure.

"Hush. Relax. Trust me. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes," you say, sibilant dissolving on your tongue like a sugar, and pushing away the aching in your head and chest, carving it out and filling the space with heat and smoke. You feel it like a hit, and go lax all at once, marionette snipped, or noose cut, your head lolling as you lay still and soak in the sensation of Jake working his way down.

You want it again, the same as last time. You want to just spread out and let Jake fuck you until there's nothing left in your head to worry you, none of the hesitation or premeditations. Shake that fucking etch-a-sketch, take a hammer to the calculator until you’re in bright, shining pieces.

When he touches you, though, teases a finger between your cheeks as he mouths sloppily at the bottom of your ribcage, you tense again, cursing tersely. He stops, and you almost cry when he lifts his head up. "Oh. Sore?"

"No, I'm fine," you tell him. "Just, come on."

He presses hard against you, and you jerk away, groaning unhappily. "Yes, clearly," he mutters, dry and sarcastic. "It's fine. Be a peach and grab that off the table, Dirk."

You want to whine about having to open your eyes. You'd much prefer to lay back and think of Jake's dick as he fucks you however he wants, be perfect for him like this. _This_ is the one thing you're fucking good for, after all. But you turn your head, look and see what he's talking about. Grab the bottle and hand it to him.

"Thank you. You're so good at this."

"Laying here?"

"Being such a lovely, good boy. Don't diminish your accomplishments, especially such remarkable ones." As he's talking, his hands work out of your sight, and one slick finger presses into you.

He's careful, slow, rubbing slick around your hole first before nudging in. It's still sore, but it's on the right side of pain, where it gets caught up in your head with the good, the bitterness of dark chocolate heightening the sweetness of the orange tang all over again, or Jake fucking into you with his thumb against your bruise. He’s always doing this, stirring it all up in you, crossing the wires until it all overwhelms you. It's perfect.

"You're so good," he croons, right into the sharp line of your hipbone. "I left you all sore and still you're so good for me." His finger pulls at you, carefully, and you shake, gasping. It's just toeing the line of too much, right there. Any more and you'll beg him to stop. But he just eases one more finger in, slow and patient, and lets them drag in and out of you in a steady, easy tempo.

A pinprick sweat breaks out over you, and you feel the blood rushing to your face, the flush sweeping over your chest. It's so careful, in and out, nothing more. It'll never get you off, but you want it anyway, just to soak up the feeling.

"Dirk," Jake sighs reverently, kissing the skin under your navel before bending his head and swallowing your dick.

Your muscles cord, you almost yell, but it catches in your throat, comes out a soft cry as you roll your head against the bed. Everything is so heavy, holding you down, making you just take it. You want to push up against the thick molasses feeling as it pours over you like a physical thing. Not to beat it, but to feel it hold unyielding against you.

Jake pets your sides, presses his hand against your stomach, humming happily when you flex against him. His tongue curls, follows the delicate line of your scar down, wet noises as his lips make an imperfect seal. It's messier than your blowjobs, but good, dirtier in a way that makes you run hot.

He slides his fingers deep, holds them there and curls, rubs. You groan, gripping the bedsheets, shoulders lifting off the bed as you bend.

It's almost kind, the gradual way he works you up, lips smacking and rubbing against you, tongue working constantly. He's tireless, dragging you along as he licks and sucks at you. It's fucking tailor made to get you off, and before long you feel the tension wind taut, and touch his hair.

Jake nods, but just swallows around you, his fingers curling and pressing _hard_ against your fucking prostate. You lock up, voice catching as you come, his fingers rubbing and grinding, forcing it to keep unspooling, all of it pouring out of you at once. You grip his hair, eyes squeezed shut, too caught up to make a sound.

Jake swallows and swallows, letting out a pleased little hum that just makes you jerk again, spilling more down his throat.

"Oooh, _fuck_ ," you moan, tired and dizzy. "Jake... Jake."

Jake takes his time dragging his lips up and off you, making you shake, oversensitive. "Mm. Good, Dirk. Perfect." His voice is rough in a way that makes you blush hot, throwing an arm over your eyes. You have to get yourself together, reciprocate, jesus christ.

The band of your arm covers your eyes well, but you can just barely see him from your hiding place, watch as Jake wipes the back of his hand over his mouth with a quicksilver grin. He spots you peeking at him and dimples cheerfully, giving his fingers two more brisk thrusts into you. It makes you gasp and jerk, too much. He pulls out, wiping his slick fingers onto the bed.

You're still getting yourself together when he takes your wrist, pulling your arm from your eyes. "Let me see you, darling." He presses your wrist to the bed with a silent demand, and you follow it without resistance.

"I can do you, just a sec," you mutter.

Jake puts a hand on your leg, support as he knee-walks closer to you. He gets his knees planted against your hips, balanced over you, tall and towering in a way that makes you feel suddenly so vulnerable.

"You're doing enough for me," Jake says, letting his fingertips drag down across your chest, following the curve of one pec. He presses your nipple between two fingers, not quite a pinch, and you shiver. "I thought you were a vision from the first time I saw you. I was so right. You're so beautiful like this, all flushed and well-used."

You shut your eyes. You nearly expect some retribution for that, for taking your eyes off him.

Instead, Jake sighs prettily, and you can't help but look at him. Find him braced over you with his hand around his cock, stroking slowly.

You reach for him, to help, and he shakes his head. "Don't you fuss, I can take care of myself. You are taking care of me _fine_ , just like that." He bites his lip, hips shifting slightly, pushing his cock through the circle of his fingers with more intent.

The heat in your chest spreads out under his gaze. You feel yourself coloring hard from his attention, so pinpoint and unwavering. It's different from inviting people to stare at you. You know you look good with an academic (and, alright, slightly vain) eye, but now you're bruised and sweating and probably kind of a fucking mess.

Jake stares at you as he drags his fingertips over your body and pumps himself quickly.

"You're such a beauty. All this skin, I want to learn every inch of it. You're almost too lovely to be allowed to wear clothes." He sucks in a big breath, his whole chest moving, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he palms your navel and fucks his fist. "Someone should-- should keep you just like this. Spread out and freshly fucked, it's a stunning look on you."

You turn your head away, face so hot you feel dizzy. The back of Jake's fingers run over your jaw, and his thumb pulls at your chin, redirecting you to look at him. "Give me those eyes, oh, you smitten thing."

"Jake," you sigh out.

He watches your face, eyes steady, and curls his hand around your neck again. You swallow against his grip, and see him shudder, his grip on himself looking painfully tight.

He's a fucking sight like that. You've watched masturbation porn, and just watched dudes get off before. It's nothing like that. Not passive observation but you're... fuck, it's like your _his_ porn, and you're not doing anything. Just laying under him, barely touched, and you get to watch him work himself up faster and harder.

It's too soon for you to get it up again, especially given how many times you've gotten off since meeting Jake, but before long your panting matches his, and you get restless. You've not allowed to touch _him_ , but you can drag a hand through your mussed hair, pull until the sting helps you keep yourself under control, your other hand over your head, twisting in the sheets.

"Christopher fucking Christmas, Dirk, _Dirk_ , you're stunning, oh--" He eases to a painful pace, lips open around his ragged breaths as he strokes, strokes, measured and slow. "Look at me, don't you look away."

You nod against his hand on your neck, turn your head just enough to kiss the swell of his thumb.

Jake groans, and jerks, his hand nearly stripping his dick as he starts to come, quick and desperate as it hits him. And _you_ , his come shooting across your chest and belly, so hot against your air-cooled skin, you stiffen and gasp at the feeling. He jerks it out for an almost worryingly long time, spilling on you until he's got nothing left. As the last bead of come eases out of him, running back down to his hand, his head falls back, giving you the long gorgeous column of his throat as he lets out a deep, satisfied sigh.

He sways, and you reach up, taking hold of his hips, just in case. After another long, steadying breath, his head rolls from one side to the other. He stretches his arms, shakes them out, and _smiles_ at you, bright and happy.

Jake sits back on his heels, his ass against your legs, and puts up his fingers, miming a viewfinder to peer through. "This. This is a _good_ look for you, Mr. Strider."

You look down at yourself, at the fucking mess Jake's unloaded on you, and let out a snort. "Oh my god," you groan, rubbing your face.

"What a knock out," he goes on, snickering. His hands drop to your sides, rubbing against your ribs and the soft skin below them. "You should stay just like this. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"No," you mumble petulantly. "Need t' clean up." You wiggle under him, hoping he'll get the hint and climb off. Jake pouts, and squeezes you gently.

"No, no. Stay here. Just relax. I'll get something, don't move."

He climbs off, and you shut your eyes, humming. "Mm, 'right."

You do, you relax. It's hard to give a damn about anything like this. It's all been wrung out of you. Even your impending departure--

 _Don't think about it, don't think about it._ You shove the thought aside hastily. You don't want to deal with that yet. It's not like flying anymore, being with Jake. It's like falling without a parachute, and everything's going to be fine so long as you don't look down and see the ground coming up for you.

The wave of regret and panic subside, and you're still alone. You turn to find what's taking him so long.

Jake’s standing at his dresser, a damp handtowel clutched in one fist, his other hand at his mouth, thumbnail held tight between his teeth as he worries at it. There's just enough moonlight through the window to illuminate his face, particularly the whites of his eyes as he stares down into an open drawer.

"What's wrong?" you ask, tired but concerned. More than anything, you want to sleep. You're even thinking of just dealing with the come in the morning, even though you know you'll be pissed at yourself later. But you're so tired, want to close your eyes so badly.

You don't want to do it alone. Not this time.

Jake's still for a long moment before he nods to himself, reaching into the drawer. He pulls something out, something that fits in his palm, before rejoining you in bed. "Here you go, you fastidious primadonna."

"Gee, sorry I don't wanna sleep with your spunk on me.” The towel is warm against your skin, and you sigh as Jake cleans you up. No one else is going to do this, no one cares, Jake was right-- _stop it._

Jake wipes you down, and bends to kiss you. You expect another quick peck, the usual from him in a moment like this, but Jake tosses the towel over his shoulder-- you itch to go get it and put it away, jesus, even when you're halfway to fucked out dreamland you're a neat freak-- and falls over you, hand pressed to your chest, tipping your mouths together into something deep and open. You're too tired to give as good as you're getting, but you're trying, moaning softly into him, hand in his hair, running down to catch against his stubble.

You want to take it forever, want him to pour into you and fill you up with that hot molasses feeling, whatever it _is_ , love or something sane, until it's everything you know.

But Jake pulls back, and draws the blankets around you, peppering you with more brief kisses until you're coaxed into his bed.

"What's th' time," you mumble.

"You're still mine for now," Jake whispers back. "You'll get up early, plenty of time to cab over to the hostel, get your things." He nuzzles your hair, where it's soft and starting to curl behind your ear from drying sweat. "Dirk."

"Yeah?" It's dark, and he's pulled you back against his chest. It's so tranquil. Dublin's a busy enough city, you think you should hear the passing cars, the sirens, the ambient noise of a city, but here there's just your quiet words and quieter breaths, the tactile shift of sheets and blankets as you settle in.

"I want to... If you're going off to-- to walkabout the globe, who bloody knows where, I want you to have something to help you remember."

You open your eyes slightly. You think the phrase is _something to remember me by_ , but you’re hardly an expert on this. "You don't have to. I'll... Jake, I wouldn't forget."

He makes a wanting noise into your ear, his breath hot and fanning out. "Dirk..."

You shut your eyes, and nod. You don't want it, whatever it is. It's bad enough he's got you marked, dark bruises that are going to remind you of him every time you move until they fade, and then after that when you press your fingers to the skin and miss the black and blue. But you have such a hard time disappointing him. And you're such a fucking disappointment already, no matter what you've tricked him into thinking.

You swallow. "Okay."

For a moment, Jake just puts his hand on your jaw, turning you back towards him. His mouth is soft, tender as he opens against yours, tracing the bow of your lips with his tongue. You sigh into him, meet his tongue, and give into the sleepy push. Mead and the taste of you in his mouth, warming you as you remember how good it was. It always is, so fucking good you can barely make sense of _how_. This boy you saw through a glass darkly is going to ruin you for the rest of the world and you'll probably thank him for it.

His fingers are warm on your neck, tracing the circumference. It makes you shiver, the faint pressure.

He's still kissing you as his hand cups your head, and the pressure around your neck remains in place.

You still, and Jake lifts his head, his eyes so dark as he watches you.

You reach up, touch your neck. There's... something there. It's a smooth band laid taut to your skin, almost too-tight. You can feel it in how much it _doesn't_ move as you swallow, the barest resistance. It's smooth to the touch, but for what feels like some kind of interlinking design. Knots of some kind.

A... not necklace. A choker? Unfortunately named; you can breathe fine, you're just _aware_ of it on you, so fucking aware.

Jake looks almost nervous. It's weird on his face, he spends so much time almost preternaturally sure of himself. You rub the band idly with your fingers. "Not a jewelry guy, but..."

Jake rests his forehead against yours, look so eager and longing, you have to shut your eyes, unable to stand it. "Okay."

"Okay?" he echoes, the hopefulness crystal clear in his voice.

"Uh huh." You duck your head, resting against his shoulder and settling in. "Of course."

"Sweetheart," he sighs, stirring your hair, his arm wrapping around you. "Get some rest, you've a long day tomorrow."

You nod, and finally sink into the waiting grasp of sticky sweet dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm gonna say something to preclude attempts to vagueblog at me and whine about stuff. Which has sadly happened _many_ times before.
> 
> This fic is not meant to portray a healthy relationship and does not advocate this type of dynamic, it's simply a story and doesn't represent the author's views on real life autonomy or consent. Please don't be a dick about it, some people enjoy these kind of stories.
> 
> That's all. Oh, wait, no it's not, because [awildcale is trying to murder me with art again, save me from this beauty, oh my god](http://awildcale.tumblr.com/post/152598460121/you-dont-believe-in-magic-do-you-you-shake)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES ANOTHER but this one is short. important shit happens tho.

Morning comes with grey pale light that invades the bed you're so fucking comfortably ensconced in. You manage to ignore it for a while, until it stretches out like a particularly fucking rude interloper and gets into your eyes, just bright enough to bother you through your heavy eyelids.

You try to get away, sliding away from the light, but behind you, Jake is solid as a cliff face. Warm, but unmoving. You drag an arm up over your face to shield your eyes, moaning, annoyed.

The first sign of his wakefulness comes when Jake strops his face against your neck like a big sloppy cat. "Mm."

"Fuck," you mutter, squinting into the room, pissed off at the inexorable passage of linear fucking motion that’s put you in this position. "Morning. Plane. Gotta..."

Jake's arm around you pulls tight. "Dirk," he sighs into you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Time's up.

When you say nothing, Jake nuzzles you more, lipping idly at your skin. "Dirk," he says again.

"I gotta go," you whisper, hating every syllable as you say it. But it's true. Your flight isn't _early_ , but you have shit to do, got to get your things from the hostel, check out, get to the airport. There's so much, all for Amsterdam. To get out of Dublin.

Jake's hold on you tightens, pulling you even closer against him. "You don't," he says in your ear. One hand grips your hip, holding you still. You feel his hardening cock against you, the drowsy, easy cant of his hips, and your eyes flutter shut. Shit, it's so good, you can translate the push of his hips to a thumb on the button, pushing down and pumping you full of that flood of honey.

You know what he can do to you. You can feel it swirling around your skull, so heavy you wonder if you're even capable of lifting your overfull head. Every time before, you woke alone, and you had time to push against the feeling until you emerged like climbing out of a salt water pool.

In Jake's bed, you shudder as he works his hips against your body languidly, no rhythm, just friction. You suck in a hard breath, and it knocks out of your chest when his hand closes around your dick. "Fuck-- _Jake_ ," you plead. Your back arches, head lolling back against his shoulder.

"You could stay," Jake tells you. His other arm wraps around you, up across your chest, holding you flush to him, his palm over your heart. For a moment, you get a vivid sensory flash from before, of how he touched you that first night, how for a moment you though he was reaching right into you to caress your fucking heart with a tender hand.

You open your mouth and let out a sharp moan.

He holds you tightly, one leg even hooking around yours, his whole body keeping you in place. "You could stay right here, let me keep you." His hand squeezes your cock as he works you fast and demanding. "Stay with me, I'll take care of you. I'll keep you so well, Dirk, right here." Your hips jerk, you grip his wrist, unsure if you want to pry him off or hold on.

"I-- I-- Oh, _fuck_ , Jake..."

Jake _moans_ , rich and full, his cock rubbing against your ass as he rubs your dick. "Just like this, it'd be so good, Dirk, you'd be so good, oh, oh."

You reach back, grab his hair, hold his wrist, needing something, to anchor against the storm, all the intoxicant haze in your head fucking you up and spilling over your edges. Jake lets out a hiss at the grip, but follows it. You pull him against your neck, his teeth and his perfect mouth. You want to turn, to meet them, but you can’t; he won’t let you move, and lets out a tense, _hurt_ sound when you try.

All you can do is bend your leg, giving him room. His dick slides against your ass, along the delicate oversensitive skin behind your balls. You shudder and arch against him, the only movement you're allowed, mouth open to pant as you stare ahead at nothing.

There's nothing out _there_ , fuck it, all of it, you feel so good, so used-- but cared for. His hands are greedy, which isn't new to you and your fucked up life, but they’re possessive, wanting _you_ , and that _is_.

"Don't go," Jake says breathlessly in your ear. "They won't love you like I do. _Stay_."

Something trips in your head, like a cord yanked out of socket, and you lose your mind for a moment. You stay right there and come into Jake's cupped hand; he pulls your head back to get at your mouth, sloppy and useless, shoving your tongues together as you shake apart for him.

His hips work hard against you, the friction on the edge of painful. The beading precome from his dick is just slick enough, and he fits against you perfectly as he bruises your hip with his grip, blooming wet heat between your legs, against your balls, dripping down your thigh.

You could. You believe him.

It scares the fucking hell out of you.

You catch your breaths together, and when it all settles, Jake is quiet in the aftermath, his eyes downcast.

When he loosens his grip on you, you slip away before you do something stupid like lay in his bed and decide to never leave it again.

The things this boy does to you.

You take a breath, and exhale smoke. Look back at him, on his side in bed, his sticky hand curled loosely in front of him, his eyes lidded and soft and watching you. They're bright, and mischievous, and beautiful, and sharp like chipped glass.

He shuts them, and you snap out of it with the force of a slap. Swallow, and tell him: "I have to go."

"I know, darling," he sighs. "Always so scared, always so careful." His words are nearly slurring, post-coital and sleepy. "Such a lovely thing..."

You rub your eyes with the heel of your hand and get the hell out of there are fast as you can. You have a flight to catch, a life to get back to, and this fucking fever to break.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time you dress and wash up, Jake has the door unlocked. He says nothing as you leave. You hear the lock turn again behind you.

Outside is a drizzly, piss-poor day. You watch the world go by from the the backseat of the cab in silence, your phone held facedown on your thigh, your head tilted so close to the window, you can feel it leeching the heat from your body.

You reach up, wanting to press two fingers to the mark left on your neck, wanting to ache and _hurt_ for what you’ve done. Instead, you still as you find the choker Jake gave you. It’s not that you forgot you were wearing it; it was _impossible_ with the unabating pressure it laid on your neck, but.

Well, it already felt natural. The same comfort of his hand echoed by what (if the faint reflection in the glass could be trusted) seems like silver bands braided together, interwoven in a complicated, vaguely Celtic design. It’s strange against your pale skin. Silver isn’t really your color and while the choker is… honestly an intricate piece, looks both old and expensive, it doesn’t suit you well.

You trace the band back, navigating by touch until you find the clasp, carefully integrated into the design. You push it, and feel it come loose in your hands.

Despite having slept with it on and how close it felt to your skin, it leaves no mark behind. You trace the space where it’d been, almost disappointed.

There’s still the hickey, clearly visible over the low neck of your sweater. You press it, humming, and don’t think about the bed you left behind or the offer within.

Before the cab even stops at the hostel, you put the choker back on. You don’t want to lose it in your pocket or something, it’s safer there. When you get inside, you can do something with it. But for now, it's a paltry comfort in the face of a shitty day that's only just started.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s early, by the hostel’s curfew, and you don’t even spare the front desk boy a nod as you hurry along to the residential hallway, down to your room. Your key is already out in your hand, and you’re mentally reviewing all the pertinent information you need. There is always a slight nervousness around deadlines. You are very far from any assistance, and your flight has been arranged for months now.

But you’ve done this before. It’ll all be fine, and you just have to shake off the lingering guilt over leaving Jake.

It’s guilt. You sigh as you open your locker and toss your things onto the bed to be repacked and condensed down. For the first time, someone caught your attention in a way that felt big and important, the sort of connection that made a thousand shitty romantic subplots in otherwise excellent movies snap into clarity for you.

Love, he called it, and you’re fucking running away to go get high in Amsterdam.

For a moment, you stop everything and put your head in your shaking hands.

In the coming days, Jake will figure it out. You _warned_ him, over and over, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, and at every turn he didn’t want to believe you. Whatever made him expect better of you, urged him to reach out and coax you out with him, he’d apparently been wrong.

You grab your shades from the bedside table and slide them on. Put the few items you left unpacked away. Neatly roll your clothes up to compress the space. Check that all your chargers are tidy and at the top of your bags. Find your ticket and passport.

Passport.

Passport.

Your loop of shitty self-loathing skips like a cracked disk as you’re knocked from your reverie by the fact your passport isn’t where you left it in the inside zip of your duffle. You always leave it in the same place, always keep it locked wherever you’re staying.

You suck in a breath, and it tastes sharp with adrenaline. The next breath you take slow and deep through your nose, pushing against that instinctive panic, and feel the shift of pressure around your neck like an solemn, steady grip. It helps.

Starting over, you take everything out of your two bags, set every item out with military precision across your bed. It’s a full inventory of every worldly possession you have, and it’s conspicuously missing a passport. Not the emergency roll of twenties you keep in a sock, but the one item you need to get out of the fucking country, to get to Amsterdam, to get back to Ithaca-by-New York.

Inventory memorized, you throw everything back into your bags and throw the mattress to the floor, checking under it, checking the pillow cases, pulling the drawers out of the nightstand to look inside the empty hollow of it.

Fucking _nothing_. The only record you have of Dietrich Strider’s official existence is a _plane ticket_ on computer paper and some fading receipts.

You leave the room, just to be _certain_ , go and speak to the front desk to ensure this isn’t one of the hostels that takes your passport as deposit. It’d been such a strange few days, it was possible you’ve just forgotten.

The desk boy looks apologetic as he explains, no, but if you’re ready to collect your cash deposit, he can retrieve it upon checkout.

Great. You stand in your dorm room, staring down at your things and wondering what to do. Your flight is in two hours.

With the staid Courier soul of a checklist, you know what’s next. Contact your airline, report the theft, find the US embassy, get another fucking passport.

Your head feels hollow and empty as you grab your things and sling your duffle over your back. Very suddenly, you do have a long day ahead of you.

 

* * *

 

 

You check out of the hostel mostly to get your deposit back. You might need the money.

The airline is blaisely helpful once you explain the situation. You won’t even remotely make your flight, but you have it insured, so you can get another. Another _to Amsterdam_ , not to the US, which is a good deal more fucking expensive than your puddlejump to the Netherlands.

The police report takes _hours_ , just getting the copy of the paperwork you need has you waiting in the fuzz’s front room so long, you wonder if the report’s being chiseled in cuneiform on a stone tablet.

You don’t even have time to stop to eat something. A google search informs you that you’ll need a passport photo, and getting one done quickly in an unfamiliar city at two in the afternoon without transportation is among the more stressful situations you’ve been in before. But fuck, you got it, whatever.

Then the embassy’s nearly closed by the time you hoof it over to them, and you have to break your typical Striderian stoicism to beg the guard to let you in to stand in a long fucking line only to be told an emergency passport will probably only get you back to the US.

As you stand in the lobby, making phone calls to your airline to try and get your credit shifted to a US ticket, the guards give you surly stares, like you’re a loitering customer in a store twenty minutes after closing. When you’re diplomatically told _tough shit_ by the airline, you try to find your embassy clerk again only for them all to be gone for the night.

You sit on the steps outside with your head in your hands for five minutes. You’re a grown fucking man with a scientifically unquantifiable surplus of competence in crisis situations. It’s categorically impossible for you not to make it out of this okay. The stress headache between your eyes is an illusion, just like the dinnertime you’ve fucking missed.

Which means that by the time you get back to the hostel, you’ll have missed the check in, and you technically don’t have a fucking ID, so they could just turn you away.

It’s still raining, and your feet are cold from the way it’s soaked into your socks. You’ve now gone over a day without eating, and the tremor in your hands is getting bad.

And it’s nighttime in autumn in Dublin. You only feel about seventy percent of your toes right now.

You rub your neck, and feel the warm band around your neck. You’d intended to pack it away into your bag before you went to the airport, but lost track of that plan a long time ago. Walking around in a day old sweater, some prominent hickeys, unseasonal sunglasses, and a choker too fancy and earnest to be punk, it’s a fucking miracle you’ve gotten so much done. You wish someone was here just to give you a pat on the back.

Now, as you reach the point in the night where you can’t expedite things any further without some breaking and entering (which is ill-advised overseas), the adrenaline and sheer determination leak out of you as if through a sieve, leaving just the sodden dregs of how fucked your day has been.

God, you’re fucking hungry, and the parts of your feet you can still feel fucking hurt from standing in so many lines and running around the fucking town.

Your phone battery is hovering at about a quarter charge. You check your maps application and pull up directions. Over an hour by foot, and you can’t risk using a cab with your finances potentially about to take a hit to the nuts.

You memorize the path, and shut off your phone, and start walking.

Forty minutes later, you put all your stuff down, turn the phone on again, and memorize the rest of the directions. Shut it off again, rub your hands together. You should dig your gloves out of your bag, but are sort of afraid if you slow down, you’re going to pass out somewhere before you make it to your destination.

Duffle thrown over your shoulder, you set out again, pulling your wheeled bag along behind you. Your breath is beginning to plume in front of you.

Momentum alone keeps you going until you reach the steps in front of Jake’s narrow little freestanding house on his quiet residential street. The stairs are your greatest enemy, and you glare at them tiredly for a second before making your way up, taking the time to lift your roller bag up each individual step. There are only five, but you hate every fucking one of them.

There is pale golden light just visible under the door and through the veiled window. Suddenly, you feel terrified, the emotion that’s been lurking in your chest finally gaining voice over your inertia and exhaustion to voice your fears. After how you left him, what if he’s angry with you. Sick of you. You don’t know if you have the fortitude left to handle that now.

You’re losing sensation in most of your extremities, though, and its exhaustion instead of courage that has you finally knocking on the door.

It’s also exhaustion that keeps you from vaulting over the stairs and fucking hiding behind the fence when you hear the lock being undone on the door.

You lower your gaze to the ground before the door even finishes opening. Warm, smoke-tinged air wafts out, and you’re so fucking relieved your eyes are stinging.

Jake inhales sharply, and you flinch at the sound. Then, he sighs. “Oh, pet. You don’t look like you’ve had a very good day.”

A laugh knocks loose from your chest. “I…”

“Dirk, you’re-- have you been out in the rain? It’s not even ten degrees out!”

“S’not a lot of rain, just a… a drizzle, really,” you mumble.

“Jumping friggin’ Jehoshaphat, are you just going to stand out there like a wet kitten?” He steps back, and you look up to see him finally as he holds the door open for you. He doesn’t look angry. He looks upset, and so concerned he might cry, eyes wet and red-limmed.

“I’m sorry,” you say, because you have to do this _first_. “I didn’t know where to go, my passport’s fucking _gone_ and I don’t have another ID, so I couldn’t--”

“Dirk,” Jake says, “Don’t you want to come in?”

You do, desperately, and awkwardly shuffle yourself and your two bags over the threshold, dropping them almost immediately once they are out of the path of the door. Jake shuts it, locks it up with his key, and turns to you.

His hands lift, held out but hovering; he doesn’t seem to know what to do first stands there, deliberating.

You wait, eyes low.

He reaches up, cups your face between his hands. He’s so fucking warm, it melts the ice-bolstered strength in your bones, thawing you until you fold down to lean on him. He takes your weight like it’s nothing, wrapping his arms around your chest. A faint hiss works past his teeth as his hands touch your sweater.

"This is-- I am very glad you're here, Dirk, but I don't think you realize you look like someone just dredged you from the river." He pats your back, and there is a definite damp quality it. "Feel like it, too."

You look down to see if you're dripping. The nice hardwood floors don't need rainwater all over them.

Jake tsks loudly, and grabs the hem of your sweater. "Arms up, there's a good chum."

You let him peel you out of your clothes until you're standing in your socks and briefs, shivering. As warmth as his house is, it's not enough. Your teeth are starting to click together, and you bite on your tongue to mask the noise as Jake hustles your wet clothes away somewhere.

Jake returns with a towel that he tosses over your head, rubbing against your hair. You spare a thought to how bad your hair must be right now. You forgot to do it yesterday, and by now you can only imagine the fucking mess you must be. A hard, choked noise escapes you, loud enough that Jake lifts the towel to look at you, frowning.

"Dirk?"

You don't know what to say. But as his eyes flick over your face, the concern in them intensifies. The towel's swept away, and he takes you by the arms and pulls you further into the living room.

The last thing you want to do is mess up Jake's sofa, but his hands broach no argument as he pushes you down. You see the little tracks your feet left over the floors and wince, toeing off your socks.

There's a blanket over the back of the sofa, as you assume is contractually obligated in houses like these. It's blue and green and yellow, all crocheted granny squares. Jake pulls it down, unfolding it and draping it over his own shoulders before sitting next to you. He holds it outstretched, beckoning you in. "Come here, you icicle. Winter'll not have you tonight."

Even then, it takes him pulling your arm before you go. You tuck your arm behind him, against the sofa back, and let him draw you in over him. It's an awkward arrangement at first, your body just too stiff and tightly wound against his. Your head tucks under his chin, and Jake nearly lays on his back, your body half across his, half smushed into the deep cushions. Before, you'd heavily doubted you could lay on this weird tweed monstrosity, but now, now you're curled like a comma, one arm cautiously stretched over Jake, and you're glad it’s not some sprawling futon or anything.

Here, you're pressed between Jake and the sofa itself, covered in the softest knitcraft you've ever felt. You rest against his chest and feel his heat suffuse into your body by degrees. He's almost too hot, and you consider pulling away.

Jake's hand runs through your hair, and you can feel him kiss you atop your head softly. You hum, your eyes lidding. You could sleep like this. You feel safe. Warm. Still hungry, but that can wait for the moment. Here, you carefully nudge your feet against Jake's and he lets out a shocked noise. "Lucky you're not frostbit," he mutters, and presses his feet against your much colder ones.

"Sorry," you say into his chest.

"For what?"

You're not certain. For leaving, maybe. For leaving only to show up on his doorstep again when you needed help, absofuckinglutely. For the entire mess, yeah. For putting up no resistance and sinking into his warmth like this.

You're taking advantage, you think. It's a lot of effort to lift your head, especially when Jake's hand in your hair resists you for a second before letting you go.

"I need a place to say," you tell him, forthright. "And I'll-- whatever price, I'll take care of it."

Jake's eyes focus narrowly on you for a moment before he smiles, leans up to kiss your cheek. "I'm certain we can work something out. I'm just glad you’re here and not wilting away somewhere. Or with some _stranger_ , knowing your luck you'd  be found by someone awful. Why the world conspires against you so adamantly, I don't know. Best you're here with me."

"I have to figure out my passport thing," you go on. "I don't know how long it'll be."

"Alright, sweetheart." You shiver. "Are you still cold?"

"That's not the point." He doesn't get it. How does he so consistently not _get_ what you're saying. You can't tell if he's just understanding or if he's selectively deaf to all the good sense you're giving him.

"You could have a nice hot shower. I have a great water heater, and I'll make you something to eat."

Your stomach clenches, clearly on board with that. "Jake--"

His fingers press to your lips. "Dirk. For tonight, let’s just have this. Just let me take care of you, alright?"

"I'll pay you back," you tell him desperately, even as you lower your head against his chest again, you’ cold hands wrapping around him, searching for more warmth.

Jake's nails rake through your hair. You sigh and turn into goddamn putty under the attention. "We can discuss terms later," Jake says, quietly amused. "You're here now, you're safe. Just relax."

You doze against him, listening to the steady beat of his heart under your ear and letting him pry all the icy imperviousness out of your aching grip, left open and easy and ready to fucking _rest_.


	7. Chapter 7

You aren't sure what day it is.

Well, shit, you're not even sure what your _name_ is right now. It's unimportant, scattered detritus in the wake of the morning light and Jake's hands skipping down your arms.

It’s too early, and your head’s still foggy, sleep drenched and clouded from the night before. You can’t even remember what you did, only disparate concepts of Jake’s mouth on your spine. Maybe you were on all fours again, getting fucked so hard you could only scream and beg. Or you might’ve been knelt in front of him, hands on the headboard as he got so far into you, it felt animalistic, like _mounting_ you on his cock. You have no idea, the finer points dissipating like ink in water.

Besides, you’re too busy dealing with the _now_ to keep your sex itinerary up to date.

For instance: Jake's tying you to the bed like he's playfully threatened to do so many times now. Little remarks about keeping you in his bedroom forever, how nice it would be. Every time, it brings heat to your belly, because, _man_ , on some level, the idea is really goddamn appealing.

Your back arches against the bed as you turn your head to watch him. He's placed a pillow under your neck, considerate and kind. He moves you exactly how he wants you, kisses your knuckles before pressing your wrist to the headboard. You nod silently, and hold still as he binds you there in place with a long, wide strip of butter soft suede.

"Hurts?" he asks, his voice already settling into that rare deep place you're coming to-- to be very fond of.

"No, m'fine." And you are, you are super fine, everything is great as Jake switches to your other hand, tying that one too.

"You’re always are so good," Jake informs you, and you let your head fall back on the pillow, sighing. He's right, you even _feel_ good. Sore, but ready for whatever Jake wants from you today. Later you’ll have things to take care of, but you know where your priorities lie right now.

Jake takes both of your hands, squeezing them briefly. You squeeze back, your ties loose enough not to be a worry. He's conscientious of that in a way few people have been.

It makes the sweet warmth in your chest grow.

Jake taps your nose, smiling. "Look at you. Have I mentioned what a dandy candy you are?"

"Today?" you murmur. It's a little awkward to look up at him, but you try. "Well, not those words."

"You are, I'll have you know." He strokes your cheek with his thumb before pulling away. His hands close on the top of the headboard to balance him as he moves. From your side, he shifts over, kneeling over you, his knees against your ribs. You take a deep breath, your heart sluggishly pushing against the dense contentment flooding your veins, picking up speed to try to race as Jake perches above you.

You bit down an overeager moan as he settles in. Hands curling into fists, you feel the straps bite in just a little and pull against them, finding them gentle but unrelenting. Your eyes shut, arousal shivering down your spine.

"God, you could take yourself right apart, couldn't you?" He sounds awed at your very existence, and you flush all over at the praise in his voice. "I don't ever have to do anything, you're so good at this."

"Please.” Unsure if your asking for him to get on with his plans for you or to sit back and let you do _that_. Because you could, if Jake wanted, if he asked you. You’d just lay under him and let the sweet heat pound into your bloodstream until you come. But you want him. You want him to touch you.

Instead of putting you through your paces, he decides, “Another time, then.” His fingertips trace the line of your brow, the slight dip of your temples, the freckled apples of your cheeks. As his thumbs run lightly over your eyelashes, you shut your eyes and pull absently at your wrists again.

"Easy, easy," Jake murmurs, and holds your head between his hands, lifting you up. You follow his hands, ready and wanting. His grasp of your head is spread across his fingers, easing the strain on your shoulders and neck. You roll your eyes up to look at him, and his lips curl up.

"One of a kind. Just an absolute beauty." His holds you still and rotates his hips slowly. You feel his cock run over your lips and flick your tongue out, making him breathe out a hard gasp. "Dirk, oh. Easy, take it slowly."

You stick out your tongue and curl it under the head of his cock, your eyes sliding half-shut at the usual salt and heat taste. "Incorrigible," Jake sighs, his hips rolling gently forward under your attention. "We'll see about _that_ later, you little harlot."

"Mmhm," you agree, muffled as Jake's cock slides over your tongue in a smooth, short stroke. You make a seal with your lips, lick at him, and try to follow when he slips out of your reach.

Jake's hand slides back, clenching in your hair, tight enough to make your eyes flutter as the sting sings through you, makes you groan. Jake tenses, and you smile, pulling against his grip to mouth at the side of his dick, groaning again, vibration and longing transferring by touch.

"You _minx_ ," Jake says, a stern thread in his voice as he takes your head in both his hands again. His thumbs press in hard against the hinge of your jaw, and you open up to relieve the pressure.

You try to look up at him. He's smiling. It warms you further.

His dick is just barely out of range of your tongue. You know because you try very hard to reach before he shakes your head slightly, a silent reprimand.

"None of that. Now." Jake shifts up further onto his knees. "You're going to be good, aren't you?"

You nod, or as much as you can with his hands holding you. It's enough, because his dick moves back in, slow and careful.

His hands keep you still as he sinks into your mouth. You drag your tongue against him, laving wetly. He's so careful but still so damn thick, and every time you suck him off you’re reminded again. He stretches your mouth with tireless patience, fills you, making you moan around his dick. The little stutter of his hips makes you moan more, just _happy_.

You can't move at all with his hands on your head. It's strangely exhilarating, and the syrupy flow of your blood thrums as Jake starts to roll his hips gently in and out of your mouth. Just just lap and suck at him, falling into some mediation of cock, the calm over your body absolute and perfect.

You want to touch him, but find again you're tied down. It makes you shiver all over, and behind him you rock your hips lazily up at nothing. Coming completely untouched with just a dick in your mouth would be new, but if anyone got you there, it’d be Jake.

"Oh, Dirk, your _mouth_ ," Jake moans. His hands start to direct your head, and you feel wet dripping down your chin. You're sloppy for it as his hips start to rock in and out. You just let your eyes lid and moan back at him.

Every soft noise you make, Jake echoes, as if his cock in your mouth was nothing compared to the way you were falling apart. And you are. You want to just suck him like this forever, allow him to use you however he wants, setting your tempo for you without any input.

"Dirk, you're so good. You know you're so good, don't you, sweetheart? You are," Jake tells you, words running together as he shifts on his knees again, leverage to really fuck you. He slides in so deep and so fast, you can barely rub his dick with your tongue, just let him make a mess out of you. He pulls your hair, starting to move your head along his cock rather than just holding your still. Your heels dig into the bed, and your dick's so hard you want to cry.

Jake strokes in, stills, and drags slowly out against your lips. Strokes back in, and does it again. You suck harder, desperate to make him lose it like this.

He does. One of his hands cups the back of your head, the other fists in your hair, and Jake lets loose, fucking your throat with every deep thrust until you're sure the back of your mouth is going to be pretty damn sore later.

For now, you gulp at him messily until he slides home one more time and you _shake_ as you feel his come slide down your throat. It's thick and hot and you swallow around him, dragging your tongue against him to milk it out of him. You hear Jake's tense, agonized sounds above you, catch a glimpse of his flushed face, dazed expression. "Bloody fucking goddamn, Dirk, you're so perfect. Just keep-- keep swallowing, that's it. Oh, that's _exactly_ , yes, take it all."

You do, pliantly working your throat for him as much as you can, swallowing it all before Jake eases his grip on you and slides out of your mouth. You're a wreck and you don't give a single fuck.

When he carefully lets you go, you slump back, head hanging back off the pillow, your fingers lax, dick hard but perfectly okay with remaining tied to the bed. You had plans for today, but as far as you're concerned they don't matter much anymore. You want to get off and to have a fucking nap, not necessarily in that order, wrapped up in the hot warm feeling Jake's fed you inch by inch.

Jake skates his fingers along your brow and down your cheek. You lean into it, sighing. "You're an amazing thing. Up on cloud nine, aren't you?"

One of your wrists comes loose from the bedframe. You haven't an ounce of tension in you, and you let it fall back against the bed. The other joins it, and Jake chuckles at you. Lifts one of your hands and lets it go to slump back against the bed. " _Sweetheart._ "

You're quiet, soaking in the feeling. You feel placid and still and deep like a well. Whatever the fuck Jake has going on that makes sucking him off as satisfying as a _really_ good orgasm, you don't know, but you're boneless as Jake wipes your face gently.

Sometimes he doesn't get you off. It's kind of fine. The tension hums in you all day and night, ready for the next time. You've always been kind of a slut, but now you feel like some leveled up superslut. Plus five to oral skills, now with bonus Orgasm Denial feat.

"What are you _giggling_ about?" Jake asks.

"Oh my god," you mumble. Your mouth is fucking sore. "You've fucked my brains out."

"I sincerely hope not." Hand in your hair. You could purr. "I'm very fond of them."

"That's a first," you sigh.

"Stop reminding me of how awful life's been to you, it makes me want to do terrible things." He climbs off you, and you open your eyes to peer up at him. He looks great naked. Like a statue in a museum that wants to fuck you all the time. _God,_ you're way too fucked out to think. You groan and rub your face.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm..." You lift your hand to wave it expansively. It doesn't quite work and you slump back down. "You keep fucking me stupid, I got stuff to do."

Jake snorts. "Yes, your daily seance sitting vigil around your phone, waiting on the embassy."

"Need my... thing. Passport."

Jake rubs his hand over your spine. Your eyes flutter shut; it feels like the honey gold in your spine is following his touch, and you feel it spread its stick fingers through your body, spilling out like a tipped cup. His hand runs lightly up.

His fingers touch the choker, and you shiver all over, down to your fucking toes. "Unh, Jake," you groan.

"Later," Jake whispers, and moves again, closer to you on the bed.

The only strength you have is on loan from Jake's hands as he moves you. Over, onto your side, helping you wrap your arms around a pillow and bend your legs up. He never stops touching you, hands secure on you as he presses against your ass, one hand lifting your knee to hold you up and open. You blush furiously, bury your face in the pillow. "Jesus fucking christ. Jake... Jake."

Around your neck, there's a whisper of heat, just on the good edge of burning. You move to touch it, curious, and Jake catches your elbow, holds you fast and pulls you back into him as he rocks forward.

He just fucked you last night, you think, spent an hour just opening you up and unpinning every lingering soreness in your body until the glide of his dick in you was almost frictionless, just pressure. You’re not quite that open now, enough that you wince and let out a tense grunt as he works his way into you.

The feeling around your neck feels like it has a direct line to your fucking prostate. When Jake lifts your leg up and pulls you back by your arm, gets in so fucking deep he's practically butting against your ribs, you feel it like fire up your spine, dissipating outward against silver metal, breathing out your mouth like smoke.

It's deep and demanding, the stretch of his cock in you so acutely intense you start to cry out on every thrust. But you're useless, so uncoordinated you can't even help, and you squeeze your eyes shut as it tangles in your head. You're a perfect tool for him, but if he wants more, you don’t think you have it, nothing go give him except this.

Jake stops, rolls you again, this time onto your back. The slide of his dick turning in you is fucking obscene, your mouth parting over a silent moan as you feel it, feel him resettle in you.

His hand presses down on your chest, over your racing heart. "Dirk. _Dirk._ "

"Sorry," you say, tense and furious with yourself. "I'm good, just keep-- keep going."

He braces over you and kisses you. You jerk, try to turn away, some hot anxious shame in your fucking gut. Jake redirects, kisses your ear, and sighs.

"Easy. You're safe, you're good, it's alright."

"M'not," you say before you can find the source of that voice in your head and strangle it. Look at you, ruining it all again.

Jake rocks into you, slower this time, tender. A soft noise pushes from your open mouth. "Dirk, come back. Come back here, don't leave me alone, pet. I'd be so terribly lonely without you."

You tense all over, let out a harsh cry. You can't be this person, you're going to fuck it up, he can't expect you to be good like... like...

Jake wraps you up in his arms. The thought chips and breaks as he lips at your neck, tracing the stretch of metal there, tongue against your tendons, kissing the little dip of your clavicle. It's so fucking gentle, like a feather pillow smothering that fucking asinine voice until it leaves you alone. It'll be back, you know it, but for now you can breathe again and let Jake fuck you.

You turn your head, drowsily nuzzling against Jake's hair as he gets back to business, fucking you with long, steady strokes. Your hands nearly work again, and you drape them around him until he comes in you. Shudder and feel the sensation roll up your spine and flood your mind. Goddamn.

By the time he touches your dick, it's an afterthought. You just breathe deep and regular as he strokes you, your knees bending around him just a moment before you come. He lets out a surprised noise, and bends to suck on the tip of your cock, squeezing your shaft, reaching down to roll your balls against his palm. It spills out of you forever, it feels like, but eventually you're spent, so spent the bank account’s in the red and you're never getting back out, holy shit.

Jake lifts off you, wipes his mouth briskly. "Now then. You were saying?"

"'Bout what?" You languidly turn onto your side, eyes shut.

"Exactly," Jake says, incomprehensible and weird. You don't care, really, and just sigh when he tucks himself in behind you, pulling a blanket up around you.

"Jus' gonna..."

Jake nuzzles your hair. "I think I have a good plan set up for your consideration, Mr. Strider. Sleep, have a nice shower, grab a bit to nosh on, then a movie later on?"

"Like that," you opine quietly. "Espec'ly the sleep."

Jake laughs, the rumble against your back so good and comforting. "You're turning into quite the layabout. What am I gonna do with you?"

"Keep me in bed, obviously," you remind him, eyes already shut.

"Mm." Jake's hand rubs over your bare thigh, kneading the muscles there, proprietary and just. Yeah, nice. "Just a body to keep company in bed. Would you _enjoy_ that? I admit you wear it fabulously well, but I'd miss the other aspects of your company. That sharp mind you’ve got. That way you wear your hair after you've fussed over it for an hour. That tongue of yours."

You stick out your tongue at him. He kisses your cheek.

"I may have fucked you quite silly," he tells you.

"Cool," you reply. "Gonna sleep now." And you immediately conk the fuck out.

 

* * *

 

“So what places have you graced with your beauteous presence?”

There isn’t much room in the kitchen to sit, but there is a stretch of counter space that probably counts as a breakfast nook with the wooden stools Jake has shoved under it. It’s mid-afternoon as you sit there with a mug of tea and your phone sitting in front of you. The speaker’s on as you wait for someone at the other end to pick up and inform you how the whole passport thing’s going.  You do this every day, make this phonecall. It’s routine already.

You lean your chin in your hand and watch Jake putter around the kitchen in his slippers. He has a big crock pot out, simmering lightly with chunks of stew meat and broth and a bottle of dark Irish beer as he pulls bay leaves and rosemary from the bundles drying, hung from the ceiling. It’s aromatic, making you hungry, the cinnamon toast Jake made you paling in comparison.

“Hm?” You’re certain you missed something.

“You’ve been traveling for a while, haven’t you? Where’ve you gone?”

“Yeah, few places. Most of the major cities in the US. New York first, since I had friends there, then Seattle, same reason. L.A. was pretty awful, but Silicon Valley was worse. I got thrown out of a casino in Vegas. Spent a miserable three weeks in the Keys before I had to accept I can’t fucking tan to save my life. Had a lot more fun in Portland, which probably says bad things about me.” The screen on your phone goes blank; you tap it to wake it back up. Call still connected, you’ve been on hold for over ten minutes now. “Sydney one year, Kyoto the next. Now I’m backpacking all over. Or, would be.”

Jake brightens up more and more as you go on. He breaks up the herbs with his fingers, but drops the bay leaves in whole. “That sounds incredible. I love travel. Seeing new places, meeting people, having a nice little adventure.”

“You tour around a lot too?” you ask, taking a sip of tea. It’s good, over-steeped the way you like it.

“Absolutely! You’d think I had wings on my feet, the way I get around!” You snort into your cup, and Jake flushes. “Oh, not like that, Dirk, honestly! No, I’ve been to every continent-- ‘cept Antarctica, but I loathe the cold. Really, I’ve been getting antsy. Dublin’s been a bit of a vacation for me, but it’s now been over three months and I’d get my ass in gear to try out somewhere if not for certain fetching tall gentlemen.”

It’s playful, flirty, and you try not to let it hit you hard. “You don’t have to stick around on my account,” you tell him.

He looks taken aback. “I would never leave you like this, sweetheart. Not when you need help.” He stirs the pot before covering it, dropping the wooden spoon into the sink. “It just gets me thinking. A little more time here would be nice, but I’ve been wanting to stretch my legs.”

“Okay,” you say, and tap your phone screen again.

“What do you think about New Zealand? I hear they have amazing hiking.”

“What do I think about it?” You frown at him.

Jake turns to look at you with bright, guileless eyes. “I was wondering if you’d like to come with me is all. Much longer with this embassy folderol and it’s going to be the bloody winter in Amsterdam, and who wants _that_.”

Go with Jake, to New Zealand. Heat rises in your face, a whole different type than what’s been flooding you since this affair started. “Uh. I don’t… I’d need my passport?”

Jake blinks, as if that hadn’t occurred to him. “Your-- oh, right. You could still come along with me, regardless. I have… connections, I could get you there if you wanted.”

"Connections." You're turning into a parrot, buying time just retasting every word he says, trying to examine the meaning.

"Here and there," Jake assures you with a private sort of smile. "Anywhere you like, provided it’s warm. Dublin is about as chilly as I can stand. Much prefer the hotter climes. Closer to my homeland."

"So you're not from here?"

"Gracious, no. There's green in my blood, but not quite that kind!"

You look around at the house. "I figured this was a family home or something. It's very lived in."

Jake pauses, taking your nearly-empty teacup and refilling it, the consummate host. You assume he'll have to make another pot soon, but the tea still comes out piping hot.

"It was a gift," Jake says after a long moment of silence. "From my godmother. It's a sort of... place to hang my hat between my travels, you see. She wanted me to have something to anchor me, a nice old bachelor pad for the man on the go." He chuckles softly. "I always had trouble sitting still long enough, she threatened to put me on a damned leash like one of her hounds."

"Some gift," you mutter.

"It was! Don't disparage her intentions, she was quite right about me." Jake leans over to check on his stew before sitting across from you, his cheek resting on his hand. "Look at you. Off on your own, an ocean away from home. If you even _have_ one, I certainly didn't get that impression from you. Sometimes people need things to anchor them, or they'll be eaten up like a kite lost in a tornado."

You check your phone again. Still on hold.

Jake sighs. "You trust me, Dirk." He says it like its law, as immutable as gravity and the linear flow of time. "What has you so nervous?"

"I can't. I need to get my passport, and that's going to cost me. Then I have to figure out how the fuck to get back to the US to regroup. This whole trip was a package deal, and I insured it, but I only get _that_ insured ticket price back, and that's not enough to get back to America, let alone _New Zealand_ , Jake, I'm going to have to--" You rub your eyes, letting out a breath like bellows. "I'll have to ask Jane to spot me. And she warned me this whole fucking trip was _highly foolish_."

Jake's eyebrows lift. "Jane, who is this! Do you have someone who cares for you after all?"

"I... yeah. My friend Jane. Known her for years."

Jake smiles. "She must be aces. I'm glad. But she didn't approve of your swanning around?"

"Fuck no, she didn't." You lean your face into your palm, peering at him through one eye. "She'll never let me live it down if I don't sort this out myself."

"I'm sure she's just worried. You're an easy thing to worry about. But, Dirk. I didn't mean to bleed your already exsanguinated bank account dry. If you were to come with me, I'd take care of you."

It's even harder now that he's staring right at you. You lean back, and check the phone again. Jesus, they're fucking making you wait forever today.

"Dirk," Jake says.

"Why?" You frown around the word as you say it. "Why would you."

His arm unfolds across the counter, his palm up, fingers gently curled. You look at his extended hand, at his face, unsure.

"What?" Your own hand curls into a fist, tight enough it hurts, the muscles up your arm protesting the tension through all the quiet calm you've been carrying around like a fucking overdue library book, guilty but covetous. "What do you want?"

"What do I want," Jake says slowly, his eyes locking to yours. They're so vivid. People don't have eyes that green in the real world. "That's a broad question, Dirk. Are you certain you want to know?"

You nod. The not-knowing is fucking killing you.

Jake waggles his fingers at you, and you unfurl, putting your hand in his. His skin is so warm and dry, the callouses on his thumb catching and dragging against the back of your hand.

He doesn't hold you tightly, but it feels unbreakable anyway. He lifts your hand, pets the knuckles idly. "I want a lot of things. I want you to come with me and stop fretting over little details like price. I want you to stop tiptoeing around like you were born in a henhouse surrounded by eggshells. I want you to unpack that ratty bloody duffle bag and put your stuff up like you're not going to pull a runner the moment I turn my back on you." He pulls you in closer, lips against your fingers. It’s not a kiss, just the movement of his words against your skin, the ticklish whisper of air. "I want you to relax, and not just for the ten seconds after I remind you to, but to _relax_. I want to look at you and not feel the need to-- to enact some vengeance on whoever did this to you." Now he kisses your knuckles. "I want you, and I want you to believe that just a little bit."

You feel.

You bend forward, forehead resting against your arm as Jake holds you still, and shudder. It feels. You feel.

"Uh." You lick your lips, trying to grasp at control, what the _fuck_ is even going on.

Below you, distantly, you hear someone on your phone, someone finally picking up the line. You open eyes you didn't realize you shut and blink owlishly at it. It's just there, against your other hand. You should...

Jake plucks it up, taps the speaker phone option to shut it off, and presses the phone against his ear. "Yes, sincerest apologies! Yes, sorry, he's indisposed. Will have to call you back. Yes, thank you." He thumbs the call to end, sets it down.

You let out a soft noise when Jake lets go of your hand, bereft. You feel like you're floating. What the fuck. It's not a completely new sensation, you have it all the time with Jake, but usually after... getting off or getting _him_ off. You press your hands into the countertop, steadying yourself against the overfull feeling that just crashed into your head.

Jake takes your face between his hands, stilling you as you sway. "Oh, that was a rather lot all at once, wasn't it?"

You nod, unsure of what the hell that was, just that it was a _lot_ , yeah. Yeah. "What," you start, then stop to lick your lips again, trying to make words work.

"Shh, relax." Jake runs his thumbs against the soft skin under your eyes, pressing in softly. You let out a faint moan; it feels good. "Dirk. _Dirk,_ listen to me. Are you listening?" You hum vaguely, and hear Jake sigh. "Blimey fucking hell, whoops. _Dirk Strider_ , you dear bleeding heart boy, calm down. Just let it wash past you. It'll be okay."

You nod. It'll pass you by.

"You are so damned stubborn, you drive me mad." He clicks his tongue, still holding your face. It's so nice. "Do you know, I don't do this? I think I'm... not very good at it, always suspected I would just sidestep all this mess, getting attached to people. It's so much easier, just having a bellweather blast on your own, no one to bother you, just your godmother's disapproving looks, and who cares about _those_." He sighs, sweet and longing. "And then, you."

"Sorry," you mumble.

"Oh, not again," Jake says, desperately fond. "What am I going to do with you, sweetheart."

Carefully, Jake gets up, circles around to your side. As soon as he's close, you sway into him, relieved. Your head feels so heavy, and you'd honestly like to not hold it up for a while. Jake's breath huffs out, stirring your hair, still soft from the last few days of not styling it. His arms wrap around you, holding you against him, and you rest like that.

"Dirk," he says. "Don't fret about this, lovely. You already have so many things you worry about, all the time, you tie yourself into such knots, every time I try to pluck a few loose, you've got a dozen new ones-- just, don't worry about this. Don't forget it, but don't..." His hand drags through your hair. "But maybe don't think about it for now."

He sounds unsure, but his hands are strong as they brace you. You nod.

"You're a star, there's a good love." He backs away and you give yourself a hard shake, coming out of it. Out of what? You rub your face with both hands.

"Fuck. What?"

"I've got the stew ready to simmer for a few hours," Jake says. "Movie?"

"Again?" you ask, a thread of complaint in your voice. Jesus fucking christ, does Jake like movies.

"Just one more and we'll have seen all the ones I want from this theater. Well, for this week. There's this great flashy thing due next Tuesday--"

"Oh my god, just." You drain your tea, wincing at the remaining heat of it. "I'll go get dressed, jesus. Tomorrow we're doing something else. _Anything_ but a movie."

Jake leans in and kisses your cheek. "Anything you like, within reason. You're the best."

"Yeah, yeah," you grumble, but pause as you stand. Not taking the time to think about it, you bend and kiss him back, just a brush of your mouth against his ear before you break away, hurrying out of the room.

You can still hear his surprised, delighted gasp behind you. Try to ignore it, the curl of excitement it gives you. He’s so simple to please when you aren’t shoving your foot into your mouth.

When you get upstairs and bend over your duffle to find a clean shirt, your hands slow.

Jake cleared out a drawer in his dresser for you a few days ago. Maybe...

You shake your head, dislodging the thought. That'd be fucking presumptuous, you wouldn't dare.

 

* * *

 

 

The movie is pretty fucking awful, to the point Jake folds his hand over your mouth at the one hour mark to stem your constant stream of contentious sighs and eyerolls. You tried so hard to steer him away from this blockbuster catastrophe, but Jake was determined to see _everything_ the theatre had to offer.

You really didn't want to face the reality that you were in-- that you were attracted to a guy who enjoyed such shitty examples of film, but that's where you are. You have arrived at this place, and it's awful. Jake thinks Ben Affleck is a capable actor, and you have to deal with it.

On the way back home, Jake keeps his hand tucked into the crook of your arm. You lead the way, since by now you know the path back to Jake's place, and Jake looks out at the street, at the shops, at the people loitering in the park after hours. Normally he's endlessly chatty after a movie, exuberant and bubbly as a soda fountain. Tonight, he's quiet. You hope it's because he's... comfortable with you, or something. Not because he's sick of your negative bullshit because you can't keep your mouth shut.

"Nice night," you say, and immediately wince at how little game you have, how _bad_ it is. You can practically hear Roxy making obscure industry jokes about your lack of game.

Jake looks up at the sky. "For now. Getting colder."

You know he's thinking about New Zealand. You're thinking of how much you don't want Jake to go. To leave.

The next day, you spend some time on your phone, determined to do this _correctly_. Your version of tourism isn't really compatible with having someone along with you. Not that you've never had a threesome, but... Not with Jake, not a fucking chance.

Instead, you find the sort of place you're looking for. It's unusual for you to go to a club with someone, rather than leave with someone, but you're having a lot of new experiences lately.

It's not the crush of bodies and noise you tend to prefer either, the haze and dark light that masks so much and makes what you do so much easier. Tiered levels, a live band instead of a DJ, and drinks that come in real glass. It's your speed, but with a seatbelt on rather than riding by the seat of your pants.

Jake doesn't know how to dance. It startles you so badly to see him bopping around, you laugh loud enough to draw his attention, and his full dark lip juts out in a clear pout.

"C'mere," you call, pitch it loud enough over the speakers, reaching for him through the cacophony and streaming light.

You take him to the balcony, overlooking the main dance floor, the band that smashes their way through a post-punk crash of noise and young rebellion and heavy bass. Jake rests his hand on the railing, and you box him in, hands on his waist.

There have been a lot of things in the past few weeks that have shaken you, thrown your honed and practiced confidence against the pavement until it smashed and scattered. But _this_ , you know. It's muscle memory by now, and you find it so easy to hook your fingers in his belt loops and move him against you, plucking the bass line out of the air and looping it around his hips, thread to needle, through the eyehole of your spine as it bends with his body.

Jake leans back against you, one hand folding over yours, his head against your shoulder. He's the perfect height, like he was carved from dark soft wood and brought to life just so you could rest your head here, humming that bass line into his ear until he learns it, picks it up like a natural and reaches up to cup your neck.

His finger drags over you choker, twisting it smoothly around your neck. You rock into him without intending to. No, no, even for you, that's not-- you're not going to grind off against him here. Not in _this_ kind of club, anyway. It's dark, but not dark enough for that.

He turns, hooks one finger into that choker-- you didn't think it had that much give, but the loops and links move together smooth as silk to follow his tug, and it bends to his order. You do too, following the pull until your forehead's pressed against his and your hands resettle on his hips, directing him to the music.

Jake's smile is flashing blue and green and gold in the cycling light. "This," he says. "This is magic, Dirk."

You nod, and try to teach it to him. Jake's an awful student, distracts you with lingering liplock, and laughing against your mouth when the song changes and you have to hum the new beat to him for him to follow. It sure fucking feels like magic, incandescent and neon-lit.

When you drag him out of there, much later, when all you can hear is the reverb and drum bouncing around your head like a sonic cleansing, you pull him through the streets by his hand. Now, you're certain no one will bother you, you don't pay the world any mind at all, focusing on making your way back home and keeping Jake close on your heels as he staggers with you, giggling and humming snatches of songs, echoing the noise playing in your head.

You barely give him time to lock up before you push him down on the weird oversized squashed sofa, unbuttoning his shorts and dragging them down his legs. He lifts them to help, still laughing, giddy and tipsy.

You shuck your own pants off, the waistband catching on one of your ankles. It's still enough for you to climb over him, pressing him down into the tweed and random embroidered throw pillows. Jake's laughter gets breathy and soft, lulling to something weirdly candid.

There's lube in your pocket, because, as Jake reminds you with another exhaled laugh, " _Boy scout_." He opens so fucking easily for you, it's like a dream, your head clear as a bell as you just explore, feel around where he's blood hot and delicate soft against your fingers. Find where to push, and feel him shift and rock under you. "Oh, _Dirk,_ yes, yes."

It definitely feels like magic, to get inside him while you're still shivering with electric sound and burning your midnight oil to stay in the moment. It's a precarious thing, teetering and stabilizing like a ballast. You hurry into it, not wanting to lose chance, and hold his hips up, aloft, as you fuck him, tucking him up against the pillows and the armrest.

Jake clutches your hip and hair, moves with you, broken up by sighs and murmured encouragement. It's dancing, it's magic, it makes you shake apart like the taut strings of a guitar, and you fuck Jake until he joins you in the trance.

For once, you don't care about the mess. You lay on top of him, breathing in counterpoint with him as you finally, reluctantly, loosen your grip and let the feeling slip from your fingers. Fuck. You rub your face against Jake's shirt.

Jake strokes your hair with both hands, dragging it in random directions, smoothing it down, then doing it again. The product makes it stick slightly, and he hums, pleased.

"I love you," Jake whispers, not like a confession, but an affirmation of fact. "You beautiful thing, I love you."

You bite down your instinctive responses, unwilling to let the voice in your head have your tongue this time. Not tonight. You nod against his clavicle, and feel it simmer through you. It's worth it for the happy, content sound Jake lets out. You did that. Maybe you could learn to do that again.

You bury your face against his body and for once try to be at peace with this bright thing that's found you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "dirk has lube in his pocket."  
> "i think it's like his essentials. he pats his pockets. wallet, check. keys, check. phone, check. lube, check."
> 
> oh and over on my blog, [i explained some of the ruleset i'm using for this fic.](http://callmearcturus.tumblr.com/post/152672686535/explaining-wtf-is-going-on-in-the-fae-fic)


	8. Chapter 8

It’s a rainy day in Dublin. Not just the usual dreary late-autumn rain, but a brutal and loud downpour that would put the most expensive umbrella to the test. Thunder growls and rolls for hours as a slow-moving storm system hangs out over the city, unrelenting and irritating.

It has you sequestered inside for the day. For a while, Jake checked the windows incessantly, as if he could glare the storm away. His golden key tapped irritably against the windowsill, his lip held meanly between his teeth.

“Probably not a good idea,” you told him.

“Oh, you’re right,” Jake had sighed, and put the key away. “Lazy day inside it is.”

And for the most part, it is. You have have a full breakfast, standing beside him in the kitchen as you oversee the sausage links while he poaches eggs. It’s completely foreign to you, but nice. Quiet in a way that rakes at your skin, pulling at your attention. It’s never like this for you.

After, he kisses you, tasting like fresh orange juice and jam. But that’s all. He leaves you standing in the kitchen, your heart pounding.

It’s not the first time. It’s starting to eat at you.

You’ve slept with Jake more than you’ve slept with anyone else in your life, and when he stops wanting that, it leaves you almost spooked. Not that you haven’t gotten him off in the past week, but it’s not the mind-bending torrent of sex you’ve come to expect from him. Last night, he literally just _held you_ and fell asleep.

You’re peripherally aware that this is a ridiculous thing to be concerned about, that most people get the same budget for sex _yearly_ as you get _weekly_.

But this is probably the start of it. You don’t have anyone to blame but yourself. You got attached, and figured you could hold his interest with on-demand orgasms. You had it under control.

Now, it’s a grey stormy day, the exact _kind_ people should spend in bed together, and Jake’s sitting on the living room floor watching TV and whittling. He’s tucked under the coffee table and has it scattered with chunks of pale wood, his hands working independently as he watching the screen, navigating his tools by touch alone and working them against the wood. He has some amazing, thoughtless dexterity, making it look effortless.

Watching his fingers makes you ache, uncertain and confused. If you did something wrong, you don’t know what. He hasn’t gotten angry with you, you haven’t argued. He just isn’t fucking you as much.

Jake is making what looks like little animals, bone white aspen carved into palm-sized creatures with horns and wings and long curved tails. He’s making a whole menagerie, the completed pieces set aside on their own, away from the dust and shavings. As he adds another to the herd, an odd bull with wings, he spots you lurking, and tilts his head at you. “Something the matter, Dirk?”

You’re not about to admit what has you so fucking anxious. “No.”

Jake snorts. “Clearly! Are you feeling a bit cooped up?” He sweeps some of his mess aside, picks up another chunk of wood. “I’m very accustomed to occupying myself, I forgot you might not be. What would lower those hackles and calm you down?” He lifts an eyebrow at you, smiles curled. “Hobbies besides… well, besides _that_.”

What’s wrong with _that_ , you think petulantly. When you don’t reply, he goes on. “I know you like filling your head with a veritable Library of Alexandria. And you like music, and computer work. I have one, a computer! It’s just, uh.” He snickers. “It’s very old. I think it’s still running XP or 7.”

Because it’ll keep you from standing there watching him like a creep, you follow his nod and find the tower in a cabinet. It’s old, unbranded, and more than a little dusty.

You drag your fingers along the chassis, find where it opens, and pop that fucker to look inside. Taking stock, you shrug. “Not a lost cause.”

“Few things are,” Jake chirps.

You squint at the components. They’re hard to see in the comfortably dim light of Jake’s house. “Quad core, but older generation. Needs more RAM. And like an entire can of air to clean the dust out. It won’t be a Crysis box, but it can be a workhorse. Maybe a media center.”

“You should write a list of what you need, we can pick it up tomorrow provided this storm wanders off somewhere less inconvenient and vexing.”

“I don’t have the cash to drop on RAM right now,” you remind him.

“Oh, please, I’d get it for you, I hardly mind.”

You close the chassis with more force than you intend. “Will you knock that off,” you tell him, and instantly regret the harsh edge to your words.

When you dare to turn around, Jake’s lips are parted, eyes wide, fairly gaping at you in surprise. Immediately, you feel like an asshole. To your continued dismay, he doesn’t say anything, continues to stare at you. You swallow around the knot in your throat, feel the way it moves against your choker. “It’s just like you’re trying to get me to be your… kept man, or something.”

Jake’s dark eyebrows lift nearly to his hairline. “And you’re… upset about this?”

“Jake,” you breathe. “Jesus, come on.”

“I feel like I’m missing something!” He puts down the awl in his hand, leaning his back against the sofa and crossing his arms. “You’re a young man I am keeping, is that the objection?”

“I’m.” Your tongue clicks wetly in your mouth as you try to figure out what to say. Jake clearly doesn’t get it, just another one of his weird blind spots that trip you up sometimes. “No, that’s not it, Jake, it’s a _term_ , not a literal thing. There’s connotations and shit.”

“I don’t understand what you’re upset about,” Jake says tartly. “I don’t mind spending for you, I thought that was obvious by now. It’s part of taking care of you.”

“Why the-- no, giving me a place to stay and, jesus, and food, that’s understandable and fucking _staggeringly_ kind, but.” You wave your hand at the old computer. “This? Why? When all I’m doing is making a nuisance of myself, why would you _get me shit_ , Jake, what the hell?”

“Because it would make you happy?” Jake says it like it’s that simple, like you’re being fucking irrational. “What do you think this is all _for_ , are you so accustomed to misery that you’re liable to break out in hives at the first brush of happiness?”

“I’m not--” He grit your teeth, shoving your fingers into your hair. “I wasn’t _miserable_ , fuck’s sake.”

Jake _rolls_ his eyes, and it hits you like a bucket of cold water. “Of course, what was I thinking. A lonely man throwing himself across deep water, away from home, like he’s desperate to lose himself. _Wherever_ did I get that idea.”

Your mouth is dry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know more than you’d think.” He narrows his eyes at you. “If I’m wrong, correct me, Dirk Strider. _Why_ did you come here, cut yourself off from the people who could help you, but to be forgotten?”

You don’t know.

“Well,” Jake says, clipped and hard. “In my allegedly uninformed, stupid opinion as someone who knows nothing about you? I think you’re upset you went so far out of your way to get lost and instead I found you.” He picks up his carving tool again. “You can have a sulk about the fact I’d like you to be _happy_ , by all means. I’m sure you’ll realize how silly you’re being soon. Until then, I’ll take the dashing Ms. Jolie’s company over yours.”

Your ears are ringing as you duck out of the living room, into the kitchen.

 _Now what, genius_ , you think at yourself viciously as you lean on the kitchen counter, where just a few hours ago Jake had played footsie with you during breakfast. It was fun and bright as a sunspot, and you’ve done a good job smashing that nice bit of affection against the wall with your little tantrum.

You bend forward, your nose nearly to the countertop, and cup the back of your neck with a hand, digging your thumb in against the tense muscles. Pressed to your palm, you can feel the choker. Its clasp bites into the heel of your hand, bracketed in by the tight loops of the knotwork. You trace the edges, following the swooping curves of silver. They bend outward gracefully before bending sharply back into the main body of the band.

It feels smooth and warm under your fingers. You stand there for a while, bent and catching your breath, and you pick one thread of silver to trace on a whim. Follow its circuit, braiding around your neck, your eyes sliding shut as you physically examine the details. You hadn’t noticed the small budding leaves worked into the design, the thinner tendrils of metal winding around the main piece, like a pumpkin vine growing up a lattice.

It’s all a… lot more intricate than you noticed when Jake put it on you, but you’ve never taken the time to focus on it. There were always other things to think about, and it became what you simply happened to be wearing. Sometimes, the ever-present pressure was a weird solace when you felt wound up or unsteady.

You finish following the silver thread, and frown. It’s a complete circuit. It weaves into the others, but unless you fucked up and skipped to another thread by accident, the one you were idly following seems to circle your entire neck.

That doesn’t make sense.

You glance over your shoulder. You can still hear _Tomb Raider_ playing in the next room. It’s one of the big noisy action pieces.

You can’t sneak out the front door, not with the key sitting in Jake’s pocket. It never bugged you before now.

 _Now_ , your eyes drag aside to the back door. It’s a simple kitchen exit to the backyard attachment. It has shutters drawn and looks dusty from lack of use. It's completely unremarkable.

There isn’t an keyhole lock, though. No need for the key.

You just want a moment to catch your breath, to think, and honestly standing outside and watching the rain sounds nice right now.

You’re in your slippers as you push the door open and step out, intending to stand on the stoop, sheltered from the rain, and just clear your head.

But. It isn’t raining outside.

It isn't _Dublin_ outside.

You barely have the sense to reach back behind you, grabbing the door before it swings shut behind you. Careful, you step back, easing it silently back onto the jamb.

Around you is _not_ a rainstorm, nor any other residential buildings, no distant cloudy skyline, no _city_.

Around you is a garden in pale golden light. Daylight, but through the filter of a thick mist that stretches in all directions. Lush color, greens and reds and blues. Tall trellises dripping with plantlife. The fucking quaintest American Dream of a picket fence boxing it all in.

Just a garden, and a deep wood with no undergrowth.

It takes a moment for you to pry you own hand off the door, to separate and take a step out into the garden, along the ornate path, swirls of grey and green stones describing swirls shot with glass pebbles. It's so pristine and perfect, you hesitate to even take a step onto it, but.

You breathe out, notice that your exhale fogs out despite the warmth around you, and stride down the path like you're not afraid.

It's hard to see. The mist is thick around you, like a smoke machine's been left on around you. You wave a hand to clear the air, and pull back to see your skin dusted with something that catches the light, reminding you of the tactile sheen left by dust and sweat after a long night, a familiar sight in an unfamiliar place.

Where the fuck _is_ this? You’re fairly certain you aren’t drugged. You’ve been there before, you know the feeling, and you’ve always had a hard time finding shit that affects you at all, let along to _this_ extent.

It's lucid. It's like a dream. You live out the cliche and jam a nail into your arm and flinch.

The garden's overgrown to a serious degree. It looks untended, but flourishing, with huge orange pumpkins and perfect gourds tumbling from heavy vines, great berry bushes with gleaming fruit that catches the light, and some rosebushes that are reaching Audrey II sizes. It's a nightmare and you should really be reaching for an allergy pill but.

You dig both of your hands into your hair, staring around. So Jake has a house. One door opens to Dublin, Ireland. The other opens to some fucking Disney forest matte painting.

Behind you, the house is still a narrow brick-fronted brownstone, free standing with nothing but floating light and dark trees surrounding it.

"The fuck is this Phantom Tollbooth bullshit," you mutter angrily, glaring at it like it might answer.

There's only one person who could answer you. He’s probably still intently finishing up his movie. You could barge back in there, let the kitchen door bang off the counter, demand an explanation.

Something clenches in your chest. You've never felt angry with Jake before. It's a new, strange feeling, almost a more novel concept than the Fantasia acid trip that exists through his kitchen door. You left it barely open, resting against its frame, the smallest sliver of real light visible through the crack.

You step back, and bump into the fence, hands closing on it instinctively to keep upright as your knees threaten to give way.

Suddenly and with staggering intensity, you don't want the explanation. You don't want Jake to spin you a yarn with his whiskey voice and saccharine pet names. He has that talent, to make everything he says seem so reasonable, giving you license to follow along in his wild schemes. He’s like an injection of ambrosia right to the carotid. It's been a fucking revelation.

Something you’re long accustomed to fills your heart. Call it misery or sensibility or homegrown fucking sanity, but you want to hold it for a while longer rather than relax your grip. For so long, your life has been gripping that pragmatic blade, holding it back from your own chest, just trying to survive it. To outrun it.

You've gotten very fucking good at running.

Unlatching the gate, you step out of the garden and into the woods, the space between the known and unknown.

A library in your head, Jake had said. You have some relevant stories in mind. An idiot, the cautionary tale hero, would wander around aimlessly and get lost and devoured by the terrors of the woods.

You don't get far before you stoop to drag your fingers through the dirt. It takes a moment to find a suitable rock, unearthed from under some roots. It fits your palm with a nice heft, like a perfect skipping stone. One edge is split along the cleave point, left sharp.

As you walk, you hold out your arm, and mark every tree on your right. It's faint, but enough for you to see, just a horizontal dash in the bark.

"Hansel and Gretel. Ariadne. Strider," you murmur to yourself as you make your way.

Thank fucking god for your foresight, because the first time you dare to look back over your shoulder, there is absolutely _nothing_ behind you. Not a single landmark, just a still graveyard of tall trees and soft grass under your slippers. Dew catches between your toes, makes the felt and cotton damp, sodden as you trek along.

Something has to be in here. It can't just be one fucking house in the middle of some inexplicable woods.

That's when you hear a howl through the misty pale light, and rock to a stop.

"Come the fuck on," you breathe, and hurry the hell up, fingers clenching around your rock. You suck in a breath, and as you inhale motes of flickering light and exhale plumes of smoke, you remember that Jake believes in magic.

You don't. Hansel and Gretel were a nightmare bedtime story transcribed by two moralizing fuckwits who had a thing for gruesome child death. Pasiphaë might've had a thing for the equine form, but she didn't have any horned children. You've never been a fan of the banality of life, but you weren't throwing in the towel and accepting the weird forest with no undergrowth was magical. You were not so arrogant to consider the gaps in your knowledge to be mythic.

All the practically in the world doesn’t keep your pulse from rushing in your ears. You refuse to freak out, just keep putting one foot in front of the other and dashing trees. You'll find something out here and figure out where you've ended up and how.

 _Connections_ echoes in your head, and you let out a bark of shocked laughter. You'd thought he'd meant the sort of bullshit Jane could pull off by slinging her name and weekly allowance around. Not-- _connections_.

You see something out of the corner of your eye and turn neatly on your heel, facing it.

A shadow through the trees. There is so much ambient light, projected from everywhere and nowhere you can pin down, that the shadows feel unnatural, stubborn, and all the more dark.

You toss the rock from hand to hand, staring hard. You're standing in pajama pants and a too-tight tanktop, and are ready to put a violent end to any shit someone starts with you.

Now that you're looking and not just navelgazing like an asshole, there are a lot of those roving shadows. It's almost hard to nail down through all the warmth and glitter and enchanting atmosphere, like trying to see through a veil, but the woods aren't as still as you thought. Once you notice, you can't _stop_ , your eyes flicking around and trying to pick up on them all. Shadows cast from the trees, or from something beyond them? The mist is in your way, the motes of light glinting and throwing off your focus.

You hold the rock so tightly, it starts to hurt, and hurry. You can hear things around you, like sound through water, and the prickling paranoia crawls up your spine, cold like an iron pike. There's no time, and you lose the slippers to speed up.

You're stuck in some bullshit magic forest with dark shapes creeping in and this is _fucking absurd_ , you can feel the anger and adrenaline like bile rising in your throat.

But you're fast, and before too long the faint growls start to fade.

When you feel safer, when the flickering in their peripherals fades, you slow, looking around quickly, and catch your breath.

Your lips are parted around your gasps for air, trying to fill your lungs. The sour spike of panic fades out, viscid and unpleasant but leaving you in stages.

It's still hard to breathe, and you raise a hand to your neck.

For the first time since Jake wrapped it adoringly onto you, the metal is cool to the touch, against your fingers as you dig your nails into the loops and knots. It's not a warm embrace now, not the balm over your worries, it's-- tight. It's _tight._

You shove the rock in your pocket and press both your hands around your neck, trying to ascertain what the everloving christ is going on.

Immediately, thin little filaments grasp your fingers, curling around them, the tendrils of the vines reaching for you. You jerk your hand back, gasping, your heart racing. Your face feels flushed and hot as you pay the fuck attention and _feel_ the choker shift around your skin. The leaves make the softest metal-on-metal sound as they move, a melodic grind, and the knots and loops press _inward_ , against your skin like a threat as you hold your hands up, near it.

_What the fuck, what the **fuck**._

Snapping to your senses, you reach back, searching and finding the clasp. It's a small thing, buried in the intricate design of the fucking thing, but you snag your nail in the little lever and pull it loose, unhooking it from its home as the tendrils try to grab you again.

You pull, and squeeze your eyes shut as the entire thing digs into your skin further, gasping at the million little stings. It’s _pretty displeased_ with the whole thing.

Your face feels very hot, and you can't pay enough attention to keep moving in a straight line. You _have_ to walk straight or you're fucked, you know it. So you stop, and bend at the waist, inhaling as long and deep as you can around the constriction. Enough air to clear your head so you can _think_.

Your fingers press against the choker-- the fucking collar, it's unfurled wide over your neck, grown on itself, new loops and designs, it's beautiful and alive and _growing_ , and it's a collar. You feel around the break point, or where it used to be. The clasp is loose, dangling, clicking against the rest of the thing, but around it, it's wound a dozen more connections, new links braiding over each other until the circle of it lays complete and whole and unyielding on your neck.

There's barely any give to it now, doubling onto itself and reinforcing. You take another deep breath and force your fingers into the narrowing space between your neck and the collar. Pulling at it only makes it bite in more, and you let out a pained, hysterical noise. It won't break. The sweet silver knotwork has evolved into a fucking kudzu vine of strangulation around you.

The dew on the grass seeps into your knees as you fall, one hand trying to pull at the collar, your other spread wide on the ground to hold you upright.

Stop. Deep breath. Long exhale. Repeat.

You get two more tepid breaths before you shut your eyes and slump to your side, fingers tingling, everything greying out.

You think, distantly, that magic is _absolute bullshit_ , as you shut your eyes.

It's what you figure you deserve, really, for ignoring every voice of literary reason you've ever heard. It's always the smug know-it-alls who get fucked the worst in the end, and you have become the cautionary tale, it’s you. Stuck with the bleak darkness, not just an ocean away from everyone who cares about you, but maybe in a whole other dimension, the sideways world through the looking glass or on the other side of the wardrobe or within Dream's sandcastle or, _god,_ your brain won't shut up long enough to let you die.

You lay in the grass and feel outside yourself, watching your mind spin like a top, wobbling, wobbling, ready to fall.

Everything very suddenly steadies as you take a literal breath of life, a full-body gasp of deeply needed oxygen. It's the greatest rush you've ever felt, the flood of it in your body, cool and filling you like a jug of spring water. Your eyes roll, unseeing, shut, and you shudder, stealing another breath as soon as you can. You might be hyperventilating. Wouldn't that be a hilarious way to go?

Fingers run against your sore neck. Not your own. Warm, dry, calloused. "No, no no no, no, don't you dare, please don't, no no." Soft, desperate.

Jake.

You try to lift your head, but it's too much. Too heavy, like lead. As you try and fail, you feel a hand cradle your face, pulling you up from the grass. Away from the damp blades, into an embrace.

"Oh thank the bloody stars, Dirk. Dirk, my dear, there you are." He lets out a noise like a choked sob. "You wandered so far, why did you do that, oh, I should've been watching you, I'm meant to take care of you and here you are." His mouth is against your hair, muffled, tight and unhappy.

His lips press against your temple, and you feel a rush of _something_ pour into your head, refreshing and clean and-- _life_. Some of the black cotton in your head clears, enough you can let out a strained moan, head lolling in his grip. You take another breath, slower this time, and feel tingling in your hands, your legs, even your face.

The stroke of his hand through your hair pulls more out of you, more numbness and more cobwebs, leeching away the grey spots until you can see colors again. The golden light is suddenly too bright for you, and you squint against it. Almost suffocating hurts like a really bad hangover. Who knew.

You manage to focus your eyes up at him, at Jake's concerned, flushed face. When you manage to hold his gaze for more than two seconds, he smiles, eyes brimming with tears. "Hello, sweetheart." His thumb runs over your brow tenderly. "You gave me such a scare."

Speaking is too much right now. You don't have the energy. You simply lay there, in his arms, across his lap, and take stock.

You're alive.

Everything kind of aches like you've been struck in the chest with a mallet.

That sums it up, honestly. Distantly, you know you're upset with Jake, but in the wake of nearly dying alone out in a strange place, the feel of his hands cupping you, taking your weight when you don’t have the strength, and rocking you gently against his chest, is a fucking godsend. You don't have enough ire to push him away.

As you lie there, marveling at the wonder of breathing, there’s a rude interruption. Jake lets out a pissed, low _growl_ , and open your eyes like cinderblocks to look.

He's staring out, away from you. His eyes are bright, too bright, glinting with no light. Glowing. He's otherworldly, and curled over you protectively. "Piss off back to the hunters," he says, low and angry. "You found no game this day, nothing freeroaming. He's mine, and if you want to make something of it, I'll see you mounted on my godmother's wall."

Howls answer. You shiver at the sound, like silver trumpets gone feral. Jake pulls you closer to his chest, shushes you.

After a long, tense moment, he lets out a sigh, the cold mask of his face sliding off, back to the handsome, intoxicating boy you saw across the pub. He looks down at you, and bites his lip.

"Jake," you mumble, struggling to keep your eyes open.

"I can explain," Jake says, stroking your hair, tucking it behind your ear. "Let's just go home and I'll-- I'll explain."

You want to hear him out, but your eyes shut, and you sort of go away for a little while. After everything you’ve been through, you figure it’s Jake’s turn to deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first chapter without sex.
> 
> spooky.


	9. Chapter 9

The retreat back to Jake's house escapes you for the most part. You've got something vivid and bright in your veins, bolstering your lost strength to keep you on your feet, but you're still _barely_ there. Everything narrows down to the way your toes drag through the grass, half-carried by Jake as he leads you back to the garden door.

The path back seems like a much longer walk than your initial excursion. At some point, you think your feet fully leave the ground, Jake's arms shockingly powerful, taking on your weight like it’s nothing. You're so tired, like every atom in your body is aching.

By the time you're back in-- not familiar lands, but lands with actual fucking landmarks, Jake has tucked you up, clean off the earth, your legs bent, his arms wrapped under your thighs, your hands around his shoulders. Being carried like you have the heft of a few shopping bags has you tingling all over, out of your depth after an already long jaunt pretty far out of your depths.

Jake gets the door one-handed, murmuring under his breath. The second you pass through, your eyes open, some weird awareness stirring in you. You didn't even notice until now but things feel more solid. They feel like fucking concrete and rebar, honestly, after a long time walking through ephemeral gelatin. You let out a hard breath, lifting your head, and come out of your-- your half-asleep exhausted doze or whatever, just in time for Jake to set you down on the sofa and back hastily away.

You blink the remaining cobwebs out of your head and look up at him, at his wide, animal bright eyes, the bucked teeth pressing down on his lip anxiously.

"Before we--" Jake takes a shaking breath, lets it out slowly, and the last remnants of gold light plume out like smoke and dissipate before your eyes. "Are you hurt? Do you need anything? They didn't get you, did they?"

"Explain," you say.

Jake flinches, and nods. "Right, yes. Well. The thing is--" He stops, and now that you're looking at him, staring at his face and not just, as usual, into his deep eyes like you're trying to drown in them, you can see the bright sheen of them expand into a faint glow. "Dirk Strider, I would like-- no, you are not going to freak out for the next sixty seconds."

The inside of your head goes still.

Jake nods, cheeks dark with a flush. "Right. The thing is that as you-- as you might've caught on to now, I'm not... precisely your average run of the mill gent. There's lots of terms for it, but the one I tend to prefer is fae. It's a good general word, very broad. Um." He clasps his hands together tightly, stroking his thumb over the back of his hand, like a small comfort. "I did intend to tell you eventually, but the right moment never... never came up, and it seemed such a shame to ruin our time together. You've been doing so much better, I thought and--"

His hands shake as he drags them through his hair, nudges his glasses up his nose, clasps them again. "I certainly didn't want you to learn this way, running off into Faerie like that, that's a dangerous bit of business, Dirk. I wanted to save that for later. Much later, if I had my way which... I haven't, so." The normal smooth cadence of his voice is gone, a low tremble clear in his words.

He stares at you for a moment, tongue swiping slowly over his lips. "But the horse is out of that barn, and the barn's a conflagration and burning down, I imagine. I just..." He breaks eye contact, away, then back to you like he's forcing himself to do it. "Don't be-- no, no. I would like you to not be angry with me. I am sorry, sweetheart, I-- I was enjoying everything so much, and I think you were too, and it just never came up! Even when, good god, Dirk, I kept expecting maybe you would notice but you're... so eager to be taken in hand, you never seemed to _want_ to, and wouldn't it be mean to ruin that when you've so little in life already?" He sighs, and a flicker of smile curls his lips. "You're so bloody awful at having anything, it's..."

With the suddenness of a penny dropped into a fountain, you start laughing. It's a hard noise, hurts like every exhale is coming out with sharp edges. It hurts, hurts until your eyes prickle with salt and damp. You shut them, bend forward and press your thumb and index finger against them to stem the threat of tears until they stop. The line of your shoulders draws tight, then jerks as you laugh, like a broken machine looping over and over, making you shake.

It spins out from your grasp for a while, no other noise as you struggle to get yourself back under control. When you can, you lift your head, and see Jake just watching you, lips parted, eyebrows knit down. It makes you choke out another hard noise, shaking your head.

"Dirk," Jake breathes. "What are you doing?"

"Having a fuckin' revelation," you say, tense as you hold back the hysteria in your voice with a biting iron grip. "Of course. Of fuckin' course, you're a faerie. This is-- what _else_ could you have been? Jesus fuck, what the hell did I expect? To fulfill some goddamn cliche and meet a nice boy I could bring home to my family? To just _happen_ to tumble fucking dick first into a boy who finally car--" You shake your head, drag your hands over your face, inhale sharply. "What's the game here? Are you hiding a human-sized oven somewhere? Or going to make me into some statuary for your secret garden? What's the angle? I've got a fuckin' catalog of tragic flaws, where's my poetic downfall? Or am I just going to fuck myself to death, that's a bit crass but goddamn if I don't deserve it, am I right?"

"Stop that," Jake says, quick and upset. His hands fly up, then still before he wraps his arms around himself. Unwilling to touch you as you stare balefully at him. "You're not going to-- I wouldn't let that happen, and I'm not going to eat you, that's not the--" His face is tense and desperately unhappy. "This isn't like that, Dirk. You were never meant for that, for so much sadness, it's _wrong_. You were made for better things, and I just--" He swallows. "I wanted to be the one to give you that. To protect you."

"So altruism is the angle? Like I'm, what, some old dog at the pound you want to save," you ask him bitterly.

"No! You're twisting everything around! You and that clever tongue of yours, you're always so eager to make things so dark!" He shakes his head. "It wasn't just altruism, I wanted-- I wanted _you_ , you complete horse's ass, you and your bright beautiful heart, I couldn't bear to let the world just break you by degrees, not when I could do something!"

"And what," you ask, "did you do?"

Jake presses his lips together, continuing to stand there, hugging himself.

You stand, lingering weariness and aches in your legs nothing compared to the fire in your chest. It gives off black smoke, congesting your lungs and throat, burning you in a way his sweet sticky heat never did. You're taller than him, even slouched and tired as you are, and Jake's eyes flit nervously over you. You touch the beautiful collar that has grown to encompass half your neck. It's warm and still again, nothing like the treacherous stinging thing from before. "Is it this?"

Jake huffs out a laugh, and immediately looks chastised. "That's not funny, no. But no, that's just..."

"It tried to kill me."

"You ran off! I didn't know-- it's supposed to help."

"By killing me?"

"You are being _exceedingly_ difficult," Jake grouses, looking away from you, down at your grass-stained feet. "It's not the collar, that was just a-- a symbol. A link to make things easier."

"What _things_?" you press. "I can't leave? Is... is that what you've done?"

"You don't understand," Jake says miserably. "It's not what I've done. Dirk, you were so..." He looks like he's on the verge of tears. Any other day, the sight would make you relent. Now, it just fans the fires in you as fear curdles all the good feelings and sweetness in you. "Everything you did, I've never seen someone so eager to... be kept. Often I wondered if you knew you were doing it, you never _stopped_ , and even the most oblivious person tends to be wary."

Tentatively, Jake unfolds an arm, reaching out. His fingers brush your collarbone, his eyes on the band of silver around your neck. You're paying attention now, and can feel it shift and bend at his proximity. How the fuck didn't you notice it before?

"What was I doing."

"Little things, at first. Then bigger ones."

"Jake," you growl, already sick of the non-answers.

"I wanted to help you," Jake says quietly. "You were so lovely, so eager for anything. It scares the dickens out of me to think of you off on your own, the sorts of things that could poach you. There are... very cruel creatures out there, Dirk."

"And you," you breathe out, staring at him even as he avoids your eyes in favor of your neck, your clavicle. Even now, his touch is gentle. Proprietary. A day ago, you liked that. That someone wanted you.

"And me," Jake agrees softly. "That great big heart. No one else wanted it, so why couldn't I..." He sighs. "You're a bright one. You should know the basics. You took food and drink from me. Spent time in my safety. Let me into your spaces." His finger catchings on the dip of your collarbone, fitting perfectly. "You gave me your Name."

"My name?" You frown.

"No, your _Name_. I know you can hear proper nouns, come on." A soft laugh, the exhale fanning over your skin. "I didn't even have to ask or trick you, you just handed it over. _Dirk Strider._ "

You shiver, feeling the bell chime in you bones. "So what? I give my name out to plenty of people. Name. Whatever."

"People who can't use it. I can. I did." He sighs. "All those little trespasses and accepted offers, you... had to pay for every one. And they added up. If you don't repay, if you don't _set terms_ , then... I get to. And I want you very much."

"What does that _mean_ ," you ask, the coldness in your voice cracking. "What do you _want_?"

"You already asked me that." His eyes flick up, lock to yours. "Don't you remember?"

You do.

In a rush, you suddenly do, and sway on your feet. Jake's ready, catching your elbows and taking you both down to the sofa. "Easy, come on, take it easy," he soothes, hands on you. You overbalance, and settle against yielding heat. A hand presses against your forehead. You groan.

"Come back, come back." Strokes back through your hair. "Come here, Dirk."

You return to awareness quickly, rolling over onto your back. Your head is in his lap. One of his hands rests on your chest, over your heart, his fingers dragging idly against your shirt. A shudder runs down your spine, remembering further back. Whatever this handsome beguiling boy did that first night when he seemed to reach gentle hands into your chest. Now, that seems almost likely; not an imagined, phantom touch, just a careful one.

His hand runs through your hair, soothing the raw, ragged edges in your head. It's not you, and it's more than just his touch. You frown up at him. "What's happening? Seriously."

Jake sighs, and toys with your hair between his fingers, tucks it back into place, endlessly fucking tender. "You have done something rather foolish, I'm afraid. I don't want you to be scared, alright? But you are... _very_ indebted to me, it's a little silly really. Favor has to be paid in kind, and I've favored you _quite_ heavily and asked nothing in return." He taps his finger on your nose. "Except _you_ , and you were always walking around with your heart on offer. You just got used to a world telling you they weren't interested."

It all falls into place in your head like sand slipping through the funnel of an hourglass, all the finality piling up. "What if I repaid you?"

"We've, uh." His fingers touch your collar, soft pressure. "We've passed that point quite a while ago. I'm afraid there isn't anything you have that would dent it." He thumbs the line where the swirled loops meet your neck. "You must feel it by now. Even someone as devoted to the mundane as you _has_ to feel the links. Me, I can't stop, they’re just... a part of me. A part of you, too."

You lift your hand, push his away. He lets you go, lets you sit up, mercifully doesn't steady you as you sway. It's a weird feeling that's taken hold of you. There's that fog, that sweet heat, but it feels like you're standing in it up to your hips. It clings and cajoles, trying to pull you in, trying to convince you it'd be so much easier to let go and sink into it.

But you hold off, and keep your head above the surface. The haze of the past few weeks is obvious, looking back. Now that you know it's there, you think you can stay out of it.

You look aside at Jake, who watches you with anticipation, his hands clenched in his lap.

"So," you say quietly, "this is why. Why you've been so nice to me. Why you... cared. All the things you said. To control me?"

His eyes are so fucking gentle as he reaches out, takes your hand in both of his, presses his forehead against your temple, tries to fold in around you. "No, sweetheart. No, you've got it all twisted 'round. I didn't do all this to bind you to me. I-- I bound you to me so I could give you all this."

"I don't want it," you say, voice small.

He smiles. "Liar," he says with crushing certainty.

"And I can't leave?" you ask, unwilling to dwell on the other thing.

"Oh, you can! Yes, you can, this..." He taps your collar. "You can leave, you just need to come _back_. You need to come back to me, let me protect you." He leans back enough to meet your eyes. "It would hurt me very much to see you go."

You don't have a name for the feeling inside you. It's a faint anxiousness, something worried and tense gone quite under a blanket of resignation. Now that he's pointed it out, you think you can feel the shivering cord tying you to him, slack now, but held in his firm grip.

 _Let me keep you_ , he'd said, and you were so fucking relieved.

You stand up, and Jake's hands slip off you, letting you go.

You look down at him, this beautiful boy who looked at you like you were more than a cheap fuck, you wanted you in a way that defied definition, that felt so familiar to you.

You leave him there on the sofa, and go upstairs, both stung and grateful when he doesn't follow you. You're sure he could make you stay. You're sure he could do a _lot_ of things, walking around with his collar and your Name on his lips.

But you go upstairs, to the bedroom, and you shut the door behind you. Lock it. Sit on the bed with your head in your hands.

It's a long time before you move again, and then only to lay down on top of the covers. The day turns into evening, passes dinnertime silently, and Jake does not bother you.

With a nearly clear head, you lay there, your hand cupped loosely around your neck, and think.

 

* * *

 

You spend a long time laying in bed, thinking things over, shifting through the pieces and running a post-mortem. It's a little like debugging code, having to print that shit out and read it over with a set of colored pens to draw the connections and lines. Now, little things line up in your head with clarity of the _you've been fucking a faerie_ filter.

God. You've really screwed not the pooch but the whole goddamn menagerie with this one.

It's becoming a second nature thing, a nervous tic to drag your thumb across the collar. The metal feels almost felted under your touch, the designs smooth against the faint surfacing. The leaves are curved at interesting angles, and it's almost meditative to lay there and trace them.

The hour ticks by. You lay there, unable to sleep.

Eventually, you push yourself up and go to the door, silently unlocking it before stripping down and crawling back under the covers.

Within five minutes, the door creaks open. It's dark in the bedroom and dark in the hallway, but you can see the vaguest movement as Jake lets himself in and pads quietly over to the bed.

The mattress dips as he sits by your hip, one hand stroking your hair behind your ear. You don't move, trying to feel for it. For the _whatever_ it is that Jake does to you.

There's flickering warmth like a campfire, but nothing more. Either it's a lot more subtle than you think, or Jake's not playing with you this time.

"Are you angry with me?" Jake asks.

It's kind of ridiculous. Are you angry? At a faerie creature who took you in, who lead you along like a wisp to your own undoing? You've heard of self-saving princesses. Perhaps you're a self-dooming prince.

All this because you couldn't get those bottle green eyes out of your head.

"I don't really know," you admit. "Kind of hard not to see it as a little funny. Winding up in Ireland, meeting a faerie, ending up his personal sex slave."

"That's inaccurate to the extreme," Jake mutters.

You look over your shoulder, up at him, eyebrow lifted.

"It's not that I don't enjoy pursuing the carnal with you, you're absolutely _exceptional_ in that regard. Practiced and passionate about your, well, chosen field. But it was..." He frowns. "I don't like this. It makes me sound so calculating. I really didn't mean for most of this to happen. You did more of the work than I did."

"But," you prompt, waiting.

"Oh, fine. _But_ I knew you had a fixation on sex, and it made some things easier with you. If I had tried to ask you out for a night on the town, you wouldn't have bitten, but you were always up for the horizontal tango, waltz, and two-step." He shrugs, looking almost stung, like you're reprimanding him. "It's not a good thing, to boil every single interaction with people down to matters of lust, but I thought... we'd... over time, I wanted to help you with that."

"That's why," you murmur. "You've been cagey about fucking lately."

"Yes," Jake says, nodding once. "I wanted more for you. From you."

You snort. "That's a first."

"Every time you say that," Jake says, "I want to ask you for names and dates and places. Amazing how you can long for a good hunt."

You lay your head back down, staring at the opposite wall. _Fixation_ , he said. That's a fair assessment, you guess. It was just easier, you thought, but the itch in your skin grows every time you spend too long without getting some. You've ignored it mostly; it was a useful tool.

It's a little funny, having that very tool turned on you. You can't fault him at all on that count. The irony that you of all people were _seduced_ is kind of incredible.

"You're smiling," Jake observes quietly. "Is that a good sign?"

"What the fuck is _good_ anymore," you sigh, and shut your eyes. "I can't sleep. C'mon."

Jake wastes no time. He stands long enough to take off his clothes, discarding them to the floor in that way that drives you crazy. You get the feeling you'd get into the habit of picking up after him if you stayed. Someone had to, really. At least your messes were organized.

He slides in behind you without hesitation, arms folding around you. You're used to this, and immediately feel something settle with his chest against your spine.

The soft feeling of him nosing against your hair is nice too. You feel more tension leak out of you like from a sieve. Your hand curls loosely in front of you. Jake's arm follows your arm, his fingers lacing with yours.

"I could help," he whispers. "I could make you sleep if you liked."

His offer is so careful, just barely stirring your hair, it makes a long shiver walk down your spine. You know he can feel it, and he inhales sharply, steadies you with a hand on your hip.

"No," you manage. "Not yet."

You can feel him breathing, the faint movement of his eyelashes as he blinks, the rough edges of his fingers as he slides his hand to palm your belly. That alone has you... wanting. Sparking like kindling and shifting against him because yeah, you’re addicted, you want this _all the time_ and he might have a point about that, but for the moment you don’t want to put up a fight. You just want more.

"Dirk," Jake sighs. Longing, resigned, melancholic.

You roll onto your back and are unsurprised when Jake immediately rises up on his arm above you. He doesn't touch you right away. You can tell he wants to and is trying not to give in. Trying to do the right thing. You wonder if it’s in his nature.

It’s not in yours. You’re not that strong in the face of temptations, and you put your hands on him, breaking the dam. He moves, further over you, and you open up to give him space. You want that homesick molasses feeling to take you. Maybe that makes you a little sick in the head or something, but the desire doesn’t abate and at the end of the day, you were never meant for better things.

He bends to kiss you, chaste against the corner of your mouth. “Are you sure?” he asks, still so goddamn careful.

You arch your back, rub against his body, holding his bicep to steady you. “Just fuck me, Jake, come on.” You might be whining a little, petulant and greedy. Who cares. There’s no such thing as greed for the guy who you eagerly sold your soul to.

He kisses you again. You indulge him for a while, until his hands mapping out your sides and arms stop being enough and you bite his lip. His answering moan is gratifying.

Your head is still empty of anything but your own thoughts. It’s more than a little strange after so long. You pull him in like that’ll make a difference.

He shoves your briefs down your legs, resettles between them. You nod encouragingly, yes, get fucking on with it, _yes_.

When he goes for the lube-- and the new hilarity of a faerie with fucking Astroglide in his nightstand is incredible-- you’re patient enough to let him get one finger in you before nudging him back. You’ve been fucking him for weeks now, you’ve _got this_.

“Come on,” you tell him, “just wet your dick and get it in me already.”

Jake’s eyes _flash_ , bright and wild as he lets out a noise like you gutpunched him. “Dirk.”

You lift a leg to hook it around him, and pull yourself closer, under him. “It’s fine, just do it.”

His hand folds over your knee, keeping you there as he turns his head and bites you. It makes your toes curl, the sweet sting, and you moan as he bites and sucks at your skin. When he pulls back, his lips are reddened and bruised. It’s a goddamn great look for him.

As he slicks up, the noise wet and obscene, you wiggle into a better position and get your other knee hooked over his hip, holding his arms to brace yourself.

"Mercenary," Jake accuses you, smiling faintly.

"Efficient," you shoot back. "I have it, it's fine."

He nods, relenting and working close to you, eliminating the lingering space between you. His dick skips and rubs against your ass for a second, and you nearly reach down to direct him before he smacks your hand briskly away and gets with the fucking program.

You are ready for it to hurt a bit, that initial push. Kind of want it, in a way. It's grounding, it's good. But Jake pushes into you, and there isn't an ounce of tension in you, nothing to push back against. You let out the breath you've been holding, lips parting as inhale slowly. His dick opens you up like its nothing, and it's not a _small_ one, jesus.

But you've done this before so many times, the instinctive gasp-clench doesn't happen. You sigh, staring up past his head at the ceiling, and by the time his hips are pressed flush to yours, your eyes are sliding shut.

Jake shudders, and you can feel it through his whole body. "Oh, _sweetheart_ ," he breathes. "You're an absolute marvel."

Yeah. Alright. Damn. You shake your head, ready to dislodge whatever bullshit he's pulled to make you the easiest fuck in the northern hemisphere, but. It's not that.

Jake kisses you, murmuring praises you don't bother trying to parse, just a susurrus of soft bright things against your cheek. He folds down, arms bracketing your head, and kisses you, licking into your mouth slow and deep, and you just open up for him again like it's nothing.

You let out the quietest noise, and Jake nods against your mouth, starting to move. His hips move, not the rough demanding thrusts or even tempos you've gotten from him before. Now, he rocks his hips in an easy circle, never quite seeming to pull out, just moving deeper into you.

You're barely moving, but you feel the need to hold the fuck onto something. One arm around his waist, the other up his back to clutch his opposite shoulder. It's a tight hold, but he doesn't seem to mind; you're pretty tightly pressed together already.

There's an almost unwelcome clarity to it all. You're thrumming with feeling, letting out a porn soundtrack of breathy sighs and groans as Jake sinks into you and drags his dick against your prostate in that slow, relentless circle. You aren't drowning, you're agonizingly rooted in your own body.

You've been fucked before. Not as often as your friends assume when they tease you, because going down on someone is just _easier_. Getting fucked is a lot more effort. Carries that edge of danger, of vulnerability with it. You're always careful with that, since your favorite positions are all about giving up your control a little bit.

It's never like this. The mandatory tension that comes from being with someone else and getting them inside you is just _gone_. Jake has you open and easy, your body so relaxed, it's weirdly making you nervous.

Jake hisses softly, fumbles a hand against your hip to hold you. You're clenching down, a memory of that usual tension, and he groans as he goes still. "Dirk, Dirk, what--"

"Sorry," you pant, head rolling to the side, against the pillow. "Oh, fuck, j--just give me a sec."

He kisses your ear, holds utterly still as your body just-- _fuck_. You breathe deeply, and refind that calm thing in your chest, coax it back out. Your entire body shakes for a second, toes curling, nails probably digging into Jake's shoulders too much. He just breathes with you, in perfect fucking counterpoint, as you settle back down, and he sinks in again with a groan.

"All-- all the time you need, oh, god, Dirk," he moans, lush and right in your ear.

When he doesn't move again, you grip him tighter, and he gets back into it. It feels so deep and intense, like a knife blade without the pain, but it still fucking feels like it could cut you open. You squeeze your eyes shut, reaffirm your grip as he rolls into you like a tide.

"You're so good," Jake says into your ear. "I can scarcely believe--"

"Jake," you say, almost a request, almost a warning.

His arms work under you, his body heavy against yours as he fucks you. You feel out of control and hold on.

But safe. Your mouth opens around a long, desperate moan, unfurling from some place deep inside you as you're fucked and open and feel guarded and safe. It's never been like this before because it's him, and your head is crystal fucking clear and you have new knowledge like bricks holding you down and building you up, and you're opening up like a present on Christmas morning because you forgot to be afraid.

You feel the sick rush of adrenaline and try not to fall into it, breathing sharp and fast. Jake immediately moves, cupping your face, turning you to look up at him, his hips stilling to the slightest nudge in and out of you. "Sweetheart, easy, it's okay. I'm right here."

You gasp, and shake in a bad way. "Fuck, sorry, _fuck_."

Jake's face is against yours. You shut your eyes again and feel him. "I won't hurt you, it's alright. You're so lovely, it's okay. No one will ever hurt you again."

You just.

The tide hits the sandcastle and all your brilliant work is fucked, you wash out, going tense all over like gripping a blade. You feel Jake's stuttered breath, and the loss as he pulls out of you. "No, no, shit," you mumble, blindly reach for him.

He pushes you on your side, a hand pressing against your spine. "Breathe. Dirk, it's okay, breathe, I'm sorry, oh, what happened? No, it's alright."

You kind of want to smother yourself in a pillow. You don't think Jake'll let you. "What the fuck," you gasp, "did you do to me?"

"Do to you? I..." Jake's hand spreads heat up and down your spine, a heat that doesn't stick or cling or taste sweet in the back of your mouth. "Just breathe, Dirk."

You're not magicked to fucktown and back now, and you kind of hate it. There is no cushion of faerie whateverthefuck to wallow in. Reality ain't a blast when you're breathing through wave of panic. All you have is his hand to focus on, and you zero in, trying to cling to the sensation until it drags you loose from the state you're in.

Eventually, the thing gripping you breaks, and you take a breath that finally feels like air in your lungs. You can think again, for whatever that's fucking worth.

Jake's murmuring things as he soothes you.

The word _love_ is said a few times.

You shut your eyes, and let him settle you down. Part of you still wants the shortcut, the magic button in your head that will just make you better without the fuss. Instead, he pets your spine, nudges you onto your front to rub your back, and bit by bit lifts the shaky, sick feeling from you.

Your dick's not as interested in the whole affair, and when Jake settles in behind you, you don't feel his poking too insistently at you. Great. You scrub a hand down your face.

"What happened?" Jake asks quietly. "I thought... I don't want that to happen again."

"It won't," you mutter, and sigh, grabbing his arm and tugging it around you. He gets the picture fast and tucks you against him, humming contently. His hand is warm and heavy against your belly. It stirs in you, but you leave the feeling alone. You're tired.

It's been a long fucking day, and you just want to sleep.

* * *

 

You wake early, and you know what you have to do.

You’re more than a little screwed up. You know that. You’ve known that for years. People don’t uproot and run away from their lives because they’ve got a healthy outlook. You’re _aware_.

So people want to fuck you. That’s fine. You’re used to that. You encourage it. You’re good at that.

So someone comes along and wants to mindfuck you. Even that you can sort of handle. You respect it. Goddamn if you didn’t make yourself an easy conquest, didn’t walk around begging for it. Something dark and desperate in you almost…

Anyway. It’s a relief, and that’s fucked up, but so are you.

But someone wants to love you.

It makes you feel guilty. How you could’ve led someone so fucking astray into thinking you’re worth that.

You wake early, and slide out of bed on silent feet. Get dressed.

Jake leaves his fucking clothes on the floor all the goddamn time, and for once, you’re glad.

You reach into the pocket of his discarded shorts and you palm the key before you carry your shoes in hand, out of the room and downstairs.

Only then do you hurry the fuck up. You yank your shoes on, shoving the laces into the sides rather than bothering to tie them properly. You pocket the things you need, wallet, phone, keys to two apartments on the other side of the ocean.

The key is so hot in your hand, it feels like you’ll pull away sunburned. But it slides smoothly into the lock and turns.

You yank the door open.

_And it’s not fucking Dublin outside, what the everloving fuck._

It’s sunshine, and brightly colored houses. It’s the tang of ocean air around you. It’s people in brightly colored tees and draped sundresses, dark skin and blinding white sun. It’s the distant sound of the ocean, and the slightly less distant sound of a food truck serving passerbys.

You stumble backward, mouth open, head spinning. You’re not anywhere fucking _close_ to Ireland, how is that fucking possible.

_Connections._

“Holy shit,” you rasp.

Behind you: “ _That_ ,” Jake says, choked and tight, “was a mean trick, Dirk Strider.”

Oh shit.

You turn, and Jake’s standing there, arms crossed, mouth an unhappy slash over his handsome face, and his _eyes,_ jesus, his fucking eyes.

A green glass bottle full of fireflies, maybe. Beautiful, and so hard to meet.

Jake is shaking, slightly. You can see it, like a mirage hovering over this lines and edges. In a house that feels bedrock solid, he seems much less so.

His hand jerks up, rubbing his eyes once, quickly, before he points to the ground and says with a voice like the eye of a hurricane, _“Down.”_

You sink to your knees, you head smashed with a jar of that molasses. It’s so dense you can hardly see, can hardly move as it drips down your neck, your arms, covers you and slides all the way down your body.

Around you, Jake shuts the door, relocks it, and circles back to face you.

Slowly, you loll your head back to look at him, eyes lidded. Yeah. Yeah, that was the feeling you were missing before. Goddamn.

His eyebrows are pulled sharply down, his lips a pressed, flat line. He holds your chin, and suddenly that simple grip feels like the only thing keeping you upright.

He opens his mouth, starts to say something, and then… stops. Sighs deeply.

“I did this,” he says softly, shutting his eyes tightly for a moment, then opening them again. Normal, beautiful green eyes.

He lets go of you, and you sink onto your side, landing on the soft rug beneath you. Everything is heavy and impenetrable, and you put up no resistance as you fall down into it, and into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /folds hands behind head and whistlessssss. I bet Dirk would enjoy Hawaii if he gave it a shot. Just needs sunscreen.


	10. Chapter 10

You wake curled up on your side on the sofa with the granny square blanket tucked around you.

Eyes opening, you see Jake sitting on the floor near you. He’s hunched forward, his head in his hands. Crying, apparently; you can hear his stuffy inhales every couple of seconds. He’s close enough to touch. You roll your head to the side to look at him.

Maybe he can detect it, maybe everything you do is now a part of him too, because Jake stiffens and turns with big reddened eyes to look at you.

You’re tired. You’re resigned. You’re faced with the strange fucking reality that a faerie lured you into his debt and now looks utterly miserable to have you. Because of course he does. The hubristic backlash would be pretty satisfying if it didn’t revolve around you being fucking impossible to stand.

“I don’t understand,” Jake says, forgoing any attempt at pleasantries once he realizes you’re awake. “I don’t know why it’s all gone so _wrong_.” He looks down at your hanging hand, biting his lip, and lifts it. He holds your fingers hooked over his, thumbing the second knuckles gently, and looks acutely unhappy. “It’s not fair. I can see the things you want, the things you’re so desperate for they’re rending you to pieces bit by bit. You want to be safe and loved, you want to be led, you want to be allowed to get out of your head sometimes, you want for someone to lift all that dreary fucking stormcloud weight from your shoulders once in a while. I saw it. I _felt_ it in your heart, and I-- I’ve tried so bloody hard to give it to you and it’s all gone mimsy.” He shakes his head, face pinched. “It’s not _fair_.”

It’s surreal to hear it all laid out like that, things so fucking private you’ve never told a soul, barely even admit to yourself.

He’s right. It doesn’t seem fair. Yet, here you are. It’s more like being stranded than anything you’re attempted so far.

“You tried to leave,” Jake whispers. “I shouldn’t have taken that tone with you-- but you… you were just going to run off! Even knowing what would happen! I don’t understand.” He stares hard at your fingers, curled over his. “If you strayed too far or if you were gone too long, you would have…” His the apple of his throat bobs as he swallows down the rest of the sentence and cautiously lifts his gaze to yours. “Was that your plan? Do you-- hate me so much? Or do you just care so fucking little for yourself?”

You shut your eyes and sigh. You’re tired. Not physically, but there is an intense weariness laid over you. All the sweetness you’ve grown used to is gone, and when you sit up, it’s just you. Just you, with the blanket pooling around your hips. Jake releases your hand, and you rub your face.

“Does it matter,” you mutter.

“You could have _died_ , of course it matters!”

“If you looked into my heart, or whatever, you should’ve known I was fucked up,” you reply sharply. “You always wanted to know how people passed me over, right.”

“That’s no reason to--”

“Then command me not to,” you say, and Jake looks stricken, reeling back like a physical blow. “You did before.”

“No, no no, don’t be cross with me, I was so scared,” Jake babbles, palming your knees and leaning into your space. “I won’t, I won’t do that, Dirk.”

“I’m not _cross_ ,” you say sharply. “Jake, listen. You know what I think? I think you’re in over your head.”

Jake blinks, genuine surprise seizing his features.

“The… things you want for me, they sound… good.” You sigh, drag a hand through your hair. “They sound fucking incredible, actually, and I wish I could just _have that_. That you could make it simple. Or, shit, that I fucking could just let go and _let_ you make it simple.” And god, there is a small but insistent part of you that wants it, is crying for Jake to just fucking obliterate your mind until everything’s better, until you can be _happy_. “But the god’s honest is that you’ve clearly got more than you bargained for with me. So. Let me go.”

His shoulders tense to a painful degree and jerk, a faint sob escaping his mouth. He ducks his head to wipe at his eyes before looking up at you again, his face ruddy and smudged from his tears.

“You can’t _ask_ that of me!”

“Wasn’t really askin’,” you tell him quietly.

That fae brightness flashes in his eyes, and your breath catches. He watches it, watches you, and his face falls further. “Now you’re afraid of me? All I wanted was for you not to hurt yourself anymore, it’s all you ever do. Dragging you out of that cycle, into something better.” He sniffles loudly. “You don’t want to leave, do you? I still love you, even if you are… just so vexing and difficult, even when I don’t _understand_ you. I still love you, and you want love.”

He’s said it enough, the word doesn’t make your skin crawl anymore. Love. Huh. That was the last thing you expected to find on your trip.

You wonder if it would last. He could hand you everything you want, shackle you to a feast of it, and you’d break your wrist trying to get away because _fuck that_. He’d get sick of it eventually. You’re plenty sick of yourself, and you’ve got exposure therapy on your side.

He takes your hand and kisses your palm. “It would hurt me very much. To let you go.”

“More than it’d hurt to keep me? C’mon. One of these days you’re going to get tired of my horseshit and melt my brain with that magic shit you got.”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Jake says again, fucking despondent. “I was so scared you’d hurt yourself-- I--”

“Sometimes we shouldn’t have the things we want, Jake,” you tell him, sighing.

“ _Why not?”_ Jake snaps, and shuts his eyes, breath hitching. “I wanted you so much.”

Someone finally did. It’s a nice feeling. Even if he wasn’t a real boy, he felt more real than anyone you’ve ever met.

Still.

You pull your hand from his and stand, put some distance between you. Jake sits on the floor, looking at you. You breathe. “It’s just going to happen again. You’re going to get sick of me and _make_ me do it.”

“I won’t!”

You go on like he said nothing. “Let me go. I don’t want to be here.”

Jake fumbles up to his feet, arms wrapped around himself. “You do, you do though, why would you _lie to me_ , Dirk.”

“It’s a _fantasy_ , Jake,” you snap. “It’s a fetish, it’s not--” You shake yourself. “Look. You want me to stay? Then do it.” You step forward, your fists clenching hard. “You could _make me_ want it, couldn’t you?”

His lips part around a shocked exhale. You think he finally looks scared. “I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not,” you ask. “Don’t I want you to? Didn’t you see _that_ during your tour of my heart?”

“But _I_ don’t want it! Not like that! I-- I don’t want to make you love me to stay, I want you to stay because you love me!”

“I do,” you tell him, blurted and awful and the worst confession the world has ever seen. “Fucking hell, I do, you’re so fucking perfect I think I dreamed you up, but--”

“But you don’t love me enough to stay?” Jake hurls back, hurt plain in his voice.

You step right up to him, meeting his eyes steadily. You could drown in those eyes. You have, already. “Either let me go,” you say in a low growl, “or make me stay.”

He shakes. There’s a tremor in him, aching and painful to even watch. “Why,” he asks. “Why can’t you be _happy_ , I don’t _understand_.” He looks down, at your feet, at your shoes with the laces haphazardly shoved in. “It would hurt me so much to let you go.”

“It’ll hurt you more to keep me,” you inform him. “I’ll just do this again, until you get tired of me and…” You let it hang in the air. Shaking his head, Jake wipes at his face some more. “Let me go, Jake.”

“No,” Jake says, thick and so human and unpleasant, it’s hard to remember he’s something else. “I don’t want to, Dirk, please.”

You don’t say anything. He has your ultimatum. Now, you let him stand there, getting ahold of himself with considerable effort, only to meet your eyes and look sharply away again, like the sight of you burns him. He wipes his nose on his sleeve. You resist the real and intense urge to pull him into your arms, sick from seeing him so unhappy.

Your fault. You sigh, and go upstairs.

You’ve gotten used to the steep steps, and know which ones creak when you don’t walk on them just right. The way you have to just barely push against the bedroom door to make it swing. Homey things, small details. You wonder if they’re real, or part of the magic of the house. Is the door really just barely hung wrong, or is it an affectation to make you feel more comfortable here, the small imperfections you want to cling to.

On the bed is your duffle bag. Already packed. And you haven’t removed your roller bag from the closet since you first stashed it there, back when you first settled in here for the long haul. You unplug your phone from the charger, your charger from the wall, and shove the whole thing into your bag.

Everything you own, you carry it all downstairs again.

You’re ready for another showdown, to force his hand one way or another. Either option, you’ll take it and... maybe not be happy, because if you’ve learned anything from this its that you’re not capable of that kind of happiness without magical mind fuckery, but you’ll be satisfied, and that’s nearly as good.

Jake’s standing there, looking at the golden key in his hand as you descend. He seems impervious to the heat in the metal, just turns it over slowly. There is a faint frown on his face, like confusion.

As you stand by him, he lets out a little hum. “I think,” he says softly, “I’ve forgotten something important. Or lost it.”

You stay quiet, and wait. The moment feels too fragile to break with your brand of verbal bullshit.

“I was human once,” he tells you, still turning the key between his fingers. “It always feels like just yesterday I was living on my island, trying to survive on my own. My grandmother died, you see, when I was very young, and I was left with no one. A whole blighted ocean away from anyone.” He presses his thumb against the teeth of the key. “I should’ve died. From exposure or starvation or from the nasty beasties that lived out there. Even back then, I was just a kid, but I knew I wasn’t going to survive.”

He sighs, a wistful look in his eyes. “My godmother found me. Took me in. Gave me a lovely tower to live in, full of books to read and plenty of warmth and safety. Everyone was so nice…”

His fingers curl and close around the key. “I think I lost something in that tower, perhaps.”

You step out of his way as he walks to the door. His hand presses against it, and he slides the key home, turns it. Turns it further, and slides it out. Puts it back into his pocket.

The door opens, and the brilliant sunshine and ocean air is gone. It’s Dublin again, dour and grey.

Jake hums, nodding to himself. “You should go.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. Relief should be flooding you, not dread.

As you step closer, Jake looks away, biting his lower lip. “If you need, you could… I’ll be here a while.”

“Thanks,” you say, and let go of your roller bag to clench your hand in his shirt, lean in, and kiss him.

Immediately, Jake reaches up into your hair, taking hold and turning you both until you lock together into something deep and desperate. You try to haul him closer, try to get so far into him that you occupy the same space, so you’re never alone again, never without this brilliant magical boy again. You hate yourself for saying no to him, for forcing his hand on you to release, to let that leash slip his grasp.

You love him for doing it, though, and pour it into your kiss, and hope he knows.

Eventually, you part, and grab your bag again. Jake says nothing, just leans on the door as he holds it open and lets you pass over the threshold, going the wrong way.

Before you’re even down the stairs to the sidewalk below, the door shuts behind you, and you regret absolutely everything.

Without looking back, you set off.

 

* * *

 

It’s early in the day still. You have plenty of time to lug all your shit across town to the embassy and install yourself there. It’s been more than enough time by now, and you’re eager to have your passport in hand, like a talisman finally restored.

Bureaucracy is still thing, though, and it doesn’t care that you have already had a fucking _day_ , that you are dying for something to go right for you.

There are solutions to these things, though, and while you don’t make a habit of using that perpetual lifeline, you do have a friend who is hilariously encumbered with wealth, who lacks a decent outlet for her bank account. Once in a while, you let yourself be a charity case for Jane.

So, you settle yourself behind an unoccupied desk, ignoring how the displaced Americans around you shoot you dirty looks as you send the heir of Crockercorp a few messages, explaining you lost your passport, really need it, can a guy get a helping hand in the form of an intimidating phone call and some wire transfers.

Jane is happy to help. She’s _extremely eager_ to help, even, and you wince as you realize how long its been since you touched base with her or Rox. Someday you will make it up to them. Probably with an abridged story of how you got waylaid in Ireland for a month or so because you fucked a faerie. Just as soon as you figure out how to sell that story as being legit and not just a leftover of alcohol or recreational drugs.

It’s then you realize you’re not going to Amsterdam. You’ve spent long enough out of your fucking mind. And you’re clinging so hard to your calm, to the decision to put Jake behind you, you don’t know if taking any substances that will loosen your control is a good idea right now.

It’d be real fucking embarrassing to have a meltdown while high.

You ask Jane if she can cover you for the remainder on a flight back to America. _That_ has her genuinely concerned, a wall of pale blue text trying to sleuth what has you so out of sorts.

You’ll tell her later. Somehow. When you can tell the tale without hating the ending.

 

* * *

 

The important thing is you get your passport. Your own face peering up at you, surrounded by the stars and stripes, some eagles, other patriotic shit. It still feels solid in your hand, like a key.

You check back into your hostel, spend some of Jane’s money to get a private room this time, not willing to risk the communal spaces this time.

Just you, a narrow bed, a new passport, and your bags.

And a collar.

You reach up and trace the broad silver band around your neck. It’s getting impressively wide, its new knots and loops spanning from the top of your neck down to just an inch above your clavicle. It’s still warm to the touch, like a familiar hand on your neck. There is no one around to see, so you feel it up shamelessly, sighing at the lingering sensation and comfort it gives you.

It’s going to be hard to explain to Jane and Roxy. Kind of hard to play off a big, prominent piece wrapped around your neck that doesn’t even remotely fit your usual style and can’t _come off_. That’s if it doesn’t strangle you first. You’re sure you can research some way to disable it. Now that you know what you’re dealing with, there’s plenty of literature on the topic.

That’s for later, though. For now, you’re shameless, taking your meager comfort where you can. Barring that time it tried to kill you, you’ve always liked wearing it.

It gives you something to occupy yourself with until you fade into sleep.

 

* * *

 

There is, as far as you are concerned, nothing left for you in Dublin. Or, it’d be too much to go out and try to enjoy the city now that you’re abruptly so alone after so long.

With that in mind, you take the time to go to the actual airport yourself to set up your trip home. Armed with your international IOU and bolstered by Jane’s allowance, you taxi over to the airport.

As you make your way leisurely to the appropriate airline service desk, you look around at the place. It’s a round sort of place, high arched ceilings, silver metal and wide windows that draw in a respectable amount of light, bouncing off the white walls and brightening so much, you nudge your glasses up your nose. You’ve spent so long in forgiving golden firelight, it feels too harsh to your eyes.

The discomfort haunts you long enough, it nearly distracts you from the bigger thing lingering like a shadow at the corner of your vision. More than once you turn, trying to catch glimpse of something, trying to pin down what is giving you the sensation that someone is playing your spine like a xylophone.

As you stand in the airport, looking around, it doesn’t so much hit you as much as politely tap you on the metaphorical shoulder and whisper an epiphany in your ear.

You feel it under your feet and around you, how the world feels less solid under your feet. It’s a sixth sense that’s been sneaking up on you for a while, a sliding scale of _wrongness_ versus _rightness_. Even standing still, you can feel the way… _something_ moves around you, like energy, maybe. Carried along by rolling luggages and footsteps and queues, stirred up further with every plane cutting through the air. Brownian motion, supercharged.

A place like this is transient, liminal in a way you’ve never felt before. It’s New Age bullshit you always sneered at, but you can _feel_ it.

Staying with Jake, in a place so still and calm, makes the airport feel like a mess of motion. As if experiencing the bedrock of Jake’s home has calibrated some gauge inside you, taught you were absolute zero is, and given a point of comparison to everywhere else.

You just manage to get where you’re going, but it’s hard. You feel the subtle currents and pulled energies, hooking at your own and trying to sweep you along. It’s effort to put one foot in front of the other, and keep going.

All you can do is keep going, and try not to linger.

 

* * *

 

Between Jane’s frequent flyer number and your new passport, you get your seats taken care off.

You’ll be back in America before the weekend. You have that long to come up with the story you’re going to tell security to explain why the fuck you can’t take off the thing around your neck.

You also have that long to figure out what you’re going to tell the girls.

For now, you don’t want to think about it. You don’t want to review the days you paid to a fucking gorgeous piper, not yet. Already you can feel it rising in your throat, the tide of anguish that’s just barely held off by the flood walls. It’s going to hit you eventually. Maybe not now, but soon.

You left him, and regret tastes sour in your mouth, fouling everything you eat or drink. All the honey sweetness gone acidic and tart and rotten.

You can feel it like a slow poison inside you.

_Why can’t you be happy?_

You have no idea. Only resignation to the idea. Happiness was a thing that happened to other people. Better people.

What you got was a ticket back to your life before after a taste of something other that was going to haunt you for the rest of your life.

There isn’t a more fitting end for you.

As you wallow in all your regrets and woes, moping your way back to the hostel with unhurried steps, you hear something. It’s light noise, a soft _ting_ , almost subsumed in the white noise of the city.

You only focus on it when you hear it again, and again. The sound of metal against a hard surface, a pin drop with power behind it.

It takes a moment to find the source of the sound. You turn and look back.

There are a trail of silver falling leaves on the sidewalk behind you. As you watch, they curl and bend up at their edges, autumnal rot in timelapse. More fall at your feet.

Before you even have time to reach up, to touch the collar, it _rends_ itself from your neck and falls to pieces at your feet.

You clap your hands around the circumference of your neck, pressing into the new novelty of your open skin. Unmarked and free with only a faint lingering warmth to mark where _you_ were marked, and even that dissipates against your fingertips to nothing.

On the ground, the tangle of vines and knots and filigree and leaves is coming apart before your eyes. Silvery green goes brittle, to bronze and to rust, cleaving itself to fractures and particles. It shrivels and breaks itself more and more as it curls around itself.

It feels like watching something gory and horrific, and you can’t look away.

When it stops, all that’s left is a scattered smear of rust, already catching in the breeze and vanishing, and some delicate browning pumpkin vines, a few dull leaves clinging on.

You drop to your knees and with shaking hands gather what you can of the intact pieces.

It’s not a lot, and more break between your fingers when you try.

In place of that worn, comfortable band, something else seizes you around the throat, making your throat click as you try to swallow past it. Fear. Honest to fuck fear.

Jake.

You shove what you can of the withering collar into your pocket and start running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one took so long, i had nothing but closing shifts at work for over a month and it's starting to just wear me down. also, i'm viciously sick today. /slurps thermaflu and makes a face


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [/puts "505" by the Arctic Monkeys on loop for the duration of this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MrmPDUvKyLs)

By the time you reach Jake’s house, there is a tight stitch in your ribs, and the cold air stings your throat with every breath you take. But it’s all secondary to the relief you feel when the house is still _there_. Somehow, you didn’t expect that. Just an empty lot where it once stood, the remnants alone and Jake gone.

You have no idea if that’s how it works, actually. As you lean on the railing of the stairs and catch your breath, you figure that makes no sense. How fucking conspicuous would it be, for the house to just _disappear_ when the front door opens up to somewhere new. Which meant the house existed in different places all at once, maybe? It was, what, a functional tesseract, a nexus point, an origami residence?

The stairs are still fucking steep, but you force your tired body up, hand clenched on the railing. Which is smooth, sealed wood instead of the wrought iron of all the other houses on the street. You huff out a small laugh. Of _course_ it’s not iron. You suddenly, vividly remember Jake using his jacket as a barrier against a metal chair.

The realization of what Jake is makes a lot of things come into focus, little oddities and details that didn’t seem important before.

You brace yourself on the doorjamb and knock on the door, the ruined remains of the collar heavy in your pocket.

As you feared, there’s no answer. You give it a few seconds, then just try the knob. No joy. You knock again, and press your ear to the surface. Nothing.

You swing yourself over the railing and hold onto it to lean out and peer through the window. If someone walks by, they are going to call the fuzz on you, but fuck it.

The window is covered; the curtain isn’t really opaque, but with the lights out, it’s enough to block your view. You can’t see in.

You knock again, and drag a hand through your hair. There is nothing about this you like. You don’t know where he is, and the weight in your pocket only seems more dire as the minutes slip by.

He’d said it would hurt him, to let you go. You’d assumed he’d meant his fucking feelings, not-- but it might’ve been all the same thing to him? Emotions and the self woven together.

You drag a thumb over the brittle bend of a knot. The metal is not comfortingly warm anymore. It’s not cold. It’s just… metal.

If you had your bag, you’d try to pick the lock, even with the knowledge that picking the lock to a faerie’s house is probably up there with starting land wars in Asia as far as bad ideas go. You’ve escaped a faerie by the skin of your fucking teeth, and yet you still stand there far too long, knocking periodically.

There is no answer, and there is no light through the window. You don’t even know if the house exists on the other side of the door. As autumn bleeds into winter, you wait as long as you can stand before tucking your numb hands under your arms and trudging back to the hostel.

 

* * *

 

You spend the next day reading what you can, sitting in your private room under the blankets with your laptop on your knees.

Occasionally, you burst out laughing at the things you discover. It’s not really humor, but a sharp flinty bemusement. How the fuck did you even _survive_ meeting Jake, you wonder as you read the story of Tam Lin and Táin Bó Cúailnge. Honestly, you should be dead or braindead or-- that comment Jake had made, about his godmother and her hounds, jesus christ.

Instead, he let you go.

The bitterness floods you.

You sleep poorly, so fucking cold even under all the covers, you’re shivering. By now, you should be acclimated to the weather here, but it feels like you’ve stepped out of summer into the edge of winter, and the more you read up on, the more that seems like a _literal possibility_.

You miss the hearthsmoke that filled Jake’s home, without origin but permeating the entire house.

In the morning, you are tired, but restless. You don’t want to sleep anymore, too nervous to set loose your subconscious on all your guilt and regret and pathetic longing.

Instead, you drag your coat back on and head out. You only have one more day before your flight. If you didn’t try again, you’d never forgive yourself.

The house is still quiet and dark. You don’t wait around too long this time before moving on.

Retracing steps takes time. You carve a spiraling route out from the epicenter that is the house, walking down streets grown familiar under your combined patronage. To the movie theatre he was so infatuated with, the pub where you first saw him through so many filters (did they obscure the only filter that _mattered_ or were you just so determined to fuck him you didn’t pay attention to the details?), restaurants and that dance club where you taught him your personal brand of magic, the alley you’d hauled him down because you were too starved for him to resist.

The cafe with the yellow umbrellas.

It’s a cold day out, and most of the customers are sitting inside the presumably warmer shop. Only one table is taken, as Jake sits with both of his hands wrapped tightly around his ceramic mug.

You nearly walk right into one of the tables in your haste to get to him.

He looks fucking awful. You’ve never known Jake to look like anything but a delirious temptation, and the dissonance is so intense, for a second you think you have the wrong guy. But no one has eyes like that, even if they are mostly hidden by his hair as he hunches forward around his hot mug. His usual imperviousness to the elements seems to be gone, and today he’s bundled up in a winter coat with a furred hood hooked half over his head, his dark hair against the silver-white fur.

You stop at his table, and watch as he slowly looks up at you, his lips parting.

His face isn’t as full as before. The elegant, strong lines of his bones are still handsome, but he just looks _weary_ in a way that cuts you.

He doesn’t say anything, his eyes flicking over your face unblinkingly, intent.

You swallow and tuck your hand into your pocket, withdraw the remains of the collar to hold them open across your palm. “What,” you ask hoarsely, “did you do?”

He sighs quietly. “I let you go. You wanted to leave. I would not keep you if you didn’t want to be kept. So I let you go.”

“I thought you left,” you say, a thread of anxiousness in your voice, as if just saying it aloud will make it truth. “I-- I figured you’d get in your magic house and go… somewhere.”

His eyes are dim, and looking right at them guts you. You can’t look away though. “I’ll… get around to it.” He smiles, as brittle as the metal in your palm. It’s a connection not lost on you, and is more chilling than the threat of snowfall around you. “Might have to put my feet up, hibernate a bit. I won’t lollygag too long, just ‘til this blasted chill gets a move on.”

Your hand closes, the collar biting into your palm. “Jake.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll be right as rain come the spring equinox.” He picks up his mug with both hands, holding it securely as he takes a sip. “Nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

“It’s because you let me go, isn’t it?”

He takes his time sipping his tea, keeps his eyes averted from you as he lets out a soft laugh. “Dirk. What do you want?”

“I don’t know, Jake, the fucking magical faerie collar shriveled up and died and I couldn’t _find_ you,” you say fast and tense.

“I heard you,” Jake murmurs. “It’s very rude, to loiter on a man’s stoop making such a ruckus.”

“You were there?”

“Mm.” He nods.

“It didn’t occur to you to open the fucking door?”

“For _what_?” A coldness spreads like frost over his voice, so stark and unwelcome, you rock back on your heels. “I released you from your considerable debts. Bought you out of them, as it were. It’s what you asked for. Demanded, even!”

“I didn’t know it would… do this to you.” Make him wan and hurt and pained. You never meant for that, fuck.

“Well,” Jake says. “I daresay you can take it from me, as a veritable expert in these sorts of stories. I’ve seen them so many times.” He looks up at you from under his lashes. “They only go two ways. The naughty monster gobbles the poor innocent fellow up, as a lesson to everyone to not disobey their elders. Or, the hero gets away and slays the monster.” He shrugs. “You are a lucky one, but not as lucky as I am. You fled the clutches of a faerie. I got to stay alive and dodge all that karmic retribution.” The curve of his mouth is humorless and awful. “Give it a century, you’ll get a ballad out of it. Though I imagine they’ll have to scrub some of the more tawdry details first.”

“I don’t want a fuckin’ ballad,” you tell him, low and intent. The very idea that all of this, all that it would matter would be for some overwrought Celtic fight song makes you want to scream.

“Want,” Jake murmurs. “I never thought I’d see the day when you’d know what you _want_.” It’s mean, and hurts to hear. Even more when he continues to not look at you, drinking and keeping his gaze on the mug. “You _won_ , Dirk Strider. Go back to your life.”

The invocation of your Name makes something tug at your spine, an urge to walk away and never see Jake again. It doesn’t have a chance against the sudden fire in you as you lean on the table to get in his face and ask angrily, “What _life?!_ ”

He can’t look away now, and blinks owlishly at you.

“What life,” you repeat softly, the realization coming to you simultaneously. “The one where I did the best I could to escape the only friends I had? The one where I stranded myself away from home and just sort of didn’t give a shit about what happened? The one where I was just… swallowing knives and waiting for one of them to reach bottom?”

“Dirk, stop,” Jake says, the bitterness sloughed off, his hand pressing against yours on the table.

What life, the one you had before you ever knew what love felt like?

He let you go, and apparently fucked himself up pretty badly in the process. You know enough about the nature of fae by now to know what that meant.

His bottle green eyes shouldn’t look so empty, should not be framed with tired, dark smudges.

You look around for a moment, deliberating quickly, before grabbing his mug from his hands and slamming it back.

Jake heaves to his feet, snatching the drink back from you, mouth open in surprise, face _baffled_. “What did… _why_ did…”

You stare at him as his face quiets to something still confused, but with creeping understanding. His eyes hold yours, and you feel a metaphysical tether catch on your spine, thin but study. He still looks weak, and you grab his elbow to steady him on his feet.

“Yeah, that was pretty stupid,” you point out blandly. “I probably need someone around to keep me from doing shit like that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I thought faeries couldn’t lie?”

“We _can’t_ , I don’t understand why you-- you _left_! I let you go, and now you…” The line of his brow crinkles. “I don’t think I follow the line of reasoning here, Dirk, so you should probably explain it.”

You lift an eyebrow. “That a command?”

Jake hesitates, now outright squinting at you like you’re some fine print he’s trying his best to read. “Nnno? I don’t know?” He sighs. “Dirk, mortals don’t tend to take kindly to being _commanded_ , and yet you keep _asking_ for it, it’s enough to make me feel like I’ve got caught in a catherine wheel.”

“Most mortals aren’t me,” you remind him. “But you knew that.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “You are a brilliant thing, and I adore you, but you are making _no sense_ and now you’ve gone and…” He does something without even moving, just a force of will, and you _feel_ the tether in you tug towards him with all the solidity of him physically grabbing hold and _pulling_.

“Yeah,” you tell him with a strangely giddy feeling in your chest. “It was the fastest thing I could think of.”

“Okay?” Jake says, exasperated. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you _wanted_ to be back in my debt.”

You lean in, forehead nearly touching his. “Like I said. Fastest thing I could think of.”

Jake falls silent. You could drown in those eyes. You’re _trying_.

“You were willing to let me go,” you say softly. “And that’s-- I’m glad. But I don’t think I’m willing to return the favor.” You smile and very deliberately say, “I’m sorry.”

Another thread wraps around your spine and leads out to him. You watch his eyes widen, his hand on your arm tightening. His pupils expand and he bites his lip.

You wait him out, mostly because you’re wracking your brain, trying to remember another item off the What Not To Do With Faeries list, something quick and easy. You grin as you say, “And I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for all your _hospitality_.”

Another thread, and you can feel it braid around the others. Before you can run your mouth any more, Jake says, “If you do this again, Dirk, it’s not a collar I’m putting on you.”

 _Whoa_. A shiver runs down your spine. God, you’re fucked up, you’re still _sincerely_ aware you are fucked up, but damn. At least you found Jake, uniquely equipped to deal with how fucked up you are.

You take his hand and put the remnants of the collar in his palm. He looks at them, expression blank and inhuman and unreadable. You just hold your breath.

It takes too long, and you are so tense it hurts. “How do I do it?” you ask. “ _Tell me_ , how do I do it again? Bind myself or whatever it was?”

Jake… smiles. It takes his entire face, turning his slightly gaunt edges and lines and making him a little more familiar. It’s something wild and sunhot. His fingers fold over the collar, then open again, empty. He shakes out his wrist. “Just like that,” he says. “You do what comes naturally, Dirk, and beg someone to take you in hand.” He takes your arm, links his through it. “Let’s go. Back home. I-- I need to be on my own grounds.”

You leave the mug on the table and let Jake lean on you as you draw him away from the cafe and out into the street. By now, you know the way back to his house well.

You are a cautionary tale, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Someday, you think you’re going to tell it to Rox and Jane. That’ll be fun.

But now, you carve your way through the cold back to Jake’s magical faerie house. It is slow work, and you are really fucking uncomfortably aware of how hard Jake is breathing and how readily he lets you support him.

At a crosswalk, you reach over and brush some of his hair out of his face. Jake sighs contently, eyes shut, so you do it again.

“You’re… not looking too hot.”

“What a rude thing to say,” Jake murmurs. “Not all of us can be as damnably alluring as you.”

“No, I mean-- dude.”

Jake’s lips quirk up. “You’re a smart one, Dirk. I had… so many hooks in you. Frankly, more than I ever needed. It was hard to stop when you invited it so readily. It nearly became a-- a game, to see how many you’d take.” He breathes out, and goes quiet for a moment as you set out again, leading him down the street. “There were so many, I often thought you _wanted_ to be eaten whole. Most of my kind wouldn’t have let you go.”

“What, just kept me around, like a monument to to human obliviousness?”

He laughs. “At that point, they could have done _anything_ with you. But that’s sort of the problem, clementine. To turn you loose, I had to get those hooks out. Doing it on your end would have killed you.”

You look at him, disturbed. “What did it do on your end?”

Jake gingerly places a palm against his chest. “The sort of thing that _happens_ when you rip out a whole bloody mess of hooks.”

Just thinking about that… is unpleasant. You draw him even more firmly against your side and look away, ahead to where you’re going, unable to stand holding his eyes anymore.

When you reach his house and help Jake up the steps, he takes out his key. His hands are unsteady with it, so you pluck it from him, ignoring the way the gold almost burns you, and unlock the door. He gives you a grateful smile, and takes the key back, letting you help him over the threshold.

Immediately upon the door closing, a thick calm unfolds over you. You’re even more acutely aware of the _otherness_ that only exists in this place, the concrete stability of the foundation. A faerie house should logically feel completely different from this, unmoored and shifting. But you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when the way out shuts and a heavy but abstruse warmth presses down on you, just enough to make you feel settled.

You bend to kiss Jake, grateful at the way he immediately lifts his hands to hold your face against his. His fingers feel so good sliding into your hair, his thumbs pressing against your temples. You can feel the thing inside you, the threads, strumming, first softly and then so rapidly they blur; you can’t feel them discretely anymore, just know they’re _there_ , and humming away as you wrap Jake up in your arms and relearn his mouth with your tongue.

From here, you know a few things you could do. You have some ideas. Fingers hooking into his belt loops, you pull him close, reluctantly lift your mouth from his.

“This’ll help, won’t it,” you ask. “It’s how you did it before.”

Jake hums and rests his head against your chest. “I’ve never had to lead someone through willful indebtment. This is certainly not how I expected to spend my day.” He rubs a bit, like a kitten, inhaling deeply. “I mean, it’ll work, yes, and I’m already quite familiar with the tapestry of your soul, so that’s a nice little boon, as well as having your Name, though it’s nearly powerless at the moment, so…”

You lean back and lift your eyebrows at him. He colors sharply. “Well, see, the thing is, Dirk, I’m… a little shaky on my feet right now, if I’m honest.”

The reminder makes you wince. “Can I… like give you energy or something? Just--”

Jake’s hand presses over your mouth. “No, no, don’t! I thought by now you’d be an _expert_ in these things, and I’ll not have you binding _me_ , Dirk Strider, no.” He gives you an arch look. “Besides, I didn’t think that was precisely what you had in mind.”

It’s an interesting concept, but no, not really the thing.

Instead, you undo his belt and pull it smoothly from his pants, throwing it over the arm of the sofa. Pull his coat and shirt off, toss them with the same lack of concern, shove one hand into his pants to find his dick while using the other to shove them down his legs. Jake hitches onto his toes, letting out a shocked noise at the treatment, and you guide him down onto one of the plush rugs on the floor. Shoving the coffee table out of the way gives you enough room to lay him out. Satisfied, you strip quickly while Jake leans on his elbows, watching you.

“I have a _perfectly_ available bed, Mr. Strider.”

“All the way upstairs. You think I’m carrying you? Fuck no.” You grab the lube out of your pocket before losing your jeans too.

Jake snorts. “Allzeit bereit.”

“Sure,” you agree, and drop down to kneel over Jake. You’re thinking about logistics, and how it’s been way too long since you had his dick in you. It’s just a matter of how you want it.

You’re still long enough that Jake lets out a tense breath, shifting anxiously. It makes you decide, and you slick up your hand and grab his cock in your hand, feeling it firm up. Jake bites his lip, still propped up on his arms. You put your other hand on his chest, push him flat. “Let me do this.”

“I’m not about to say _no_ ,” Jake manages, letting out a shaking sigh.

You get in closer, his legs loosely bent around you as you work his dick between both your hands, adding more lube for good measure. You’re thinking about the last time you did this, which… didn’t end great, but the rest of it. The lack of tension and fear in you, the way it was so easy, how trust took hold of you like a fucking muscle relaxant until you fucked it all up by thinking too much. Watching Jake’s flush start in his face and sweep down his cheeks, across his chest, you want it again. Want to try it again.

When you finally move, rearrange you both until you’re balanced over him, you can see the way his eyes darken watching you, reaching out to steady you with his hands on your hips. His fingers tighten when you just settle enough for his dick to slide against you without catching, too slick for friction. “Dirk.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, putting one hand on the corner of the table for support as you grab his dick and hold it steady. “I got it, just. Gimme a sec.”

His fingers dig in hard enough to hurt as you work, and your eyes shut, caught in… a lot. In the blatant possessiveness that’d get you off as good as fucking him, in the perfect muscle memory that’s etched into you that lets you slowly open up for him, and in the fucking _relief_ that’s hitting you right in the chest as you sink down. You are intimately aware of what the fuck you’re doing, and it’s equal parts terrifying and decadent. You’re a mess, but you’re _his_ goddamn mess.

When you have him all the way inside, you shudder all over and roll your shoulders. It’s tight, but you remember this, and the harsh catch of worried tension never gains purchase. You’re fine. You’ve _got_ this. It just takes a moment, eyes closed and deep breaths, and you have it.

You open your eyes, and Jake’s staring up at you, hands still on your hips, his lips parted and dark from biting them. He watches you, then squeezes the flesh of your thigh. “C’mon.”

You nod, bracing yourself to lift up, slow and careful until you feel just the head of his dick in you, and tighten around it as you rock back down. Jake’s fingers dig in harder, and he lets out a winded noise, the edges of what could be syllables lost in his groan. You’re thrilled, and do it again.

The third time, Jake pushes back up against you, and you jolt, cursing at the feeling. “Fuck,” you grind out, rolling your head back and taking another deep breath. Jake digs in his heels and grinds up against you, and you see stars for a split second. “Holy shit, Jake.”

It’s filthy and he’s a little mean about getting you off on it. You could’ve made it there from just his dick and the relief of having it again, you’re pretty sure, but for a guy laid out and being ridden, he’s giving you a _ride_. The exhaustion seems to be leaving him, and he directs you readily, stern and not-so-gentle hands making you move with him. Your face goes hot when he grips your cock and you hang your head, palms on his chest as you just grind against him, sharp-edged with a new desperation.

One hand on your dick, the other finds your neck, thumb pushing your chin up to look at him. “Dirk. You amazing thing, look at you.”

You shut your eyes, letting out a low whine. Jake tsks, taps his fingers on your cheek. “Give me those pretty eyes, Dirk.”

You do, with considerable effort. There’s that hot, sweet cousin to nausea in your belly, getting more intense with every collision of your body against his, hard and just barely in control. You blink a few times, trying to focus on him.

“You came back,” he says, a little awed. “You came back to me, you-- oh, this is mine, isn’t it? Your lovely eyes, your body, your heart. I can have them, can’t I?” His thumb strokes your neck, and your eyes nearly shut. “I’ll take such good care of you, Dirk, you’re all mine, aren’t you?”

You nod, catch your breath enough to say, “Yeah.”

The _thing_ in you is humming so intensely, it feels like heat and light. “You’ll be mine forever this time?”

You open your mouth, and pause, thinking about it through the haze, at letting your control slip your grip in degrees. You smirk. “I’ll-- uh, I’ll be yours as long as you want me.”

Jake’s eyes brighten, widen as he watches you ride him. His mouth splits into a wide grin. “Oh, Dirk, you… are a _clever_ thing.”

The praise flushes through you, and you nod along. Your legs are starting to ache, but every good thing is knotting together in your chest and you are so close. Your hips never stop moving, just rotating, keeping him fucked all the way in you and working him against your prostate with small movements. The term _fucked into submission_ flits through your mind and you let out a shallow, delirious laugh.

Jake’s hand tightens on you and strokes you through it, until suddenly you’re coming across his chest, eyes tight, body tensing, everything just coming apart at the edges. You’re struck stupid with it, barely managing to shift back on his dick, just caught up in the crashing wave.

You’re startled out of a really good rush of orgasm when Jake shoves the coffee table further away. You stiffen, looking to the sound of wood dragging across the floor for a moment before Jake sits up under you.

The carved, tired look is gone, and he’s _Jake_ again, bright and keen and strong under your hands when you grab his shoulders to stay upright. He grins, brilliant and pleased, kisses you briskly. “Not done with you,” he says with another quick kiss. “Daresay I never will be. Come on, up!”

Your legs are tired from riding him, so it takes his hands moving you, helping you climb off him. You kind of want to just lay there on your side and rest, but Jake has other plans and rolls you over onto your back, catches one of your knees to shift you, insinuating himself between your legs.

With a grin, he drags a look across your body, hunger clear in his expression. “I want to see it again. You’re so lovely like that.” His fingers press hard against your belly, and your eyes widen as-- as he pushes it right into you, pure heat and tension and anticipation. Your eyes unfocus, unseeing at the ceiling. He touches you, wants you, and your body just _responds_. The lethargy from your orgasm is still clinging to you even as Jake brings you right to the edge again with a fucking trick of willpower.

“Oh fuck, I--” You shake your head, breathing hard and staccato as Jake grabs your hips and slides home with one easy, slick thrust. The noise torn from you is very nearly a scream, and you grope for purchase on _something_ , the rug, Jake’s wrist, eventually grasping the edge of the table just for something to clutch as Jake pistons his hips in you, a quick steady rhythm.

He fucks you stupid, incoherent and overwhelmed under his watchful eye. He touches you, pets your skin everywhere he can reach, and tells you how good you are. You don’t feel good or clever or anything. You feel like a loosely connected mass of atoms liable to fly apart at any moment, only held together by his attention.

It’s intense, and before you’re ready for it, your breath is catching in your chest. His palm lays open and flat against you, right between the sharp line of your hipbones, and you feel him push his dick inside you as he pushes something hot and unyielding but amorphous inside you under his palm, and you _do_ let out a loud cry as your back bows and you come again.

You either black out or your eyes just shut for a while. It’s hard to tell with everything.

Strong, gentle hands take hold of your face, where you’ve been bonelessly sprawled out. Jake lifts you, sweeps his thumbs against your closed eyes, against the fan of lashes, and kisses your forehead.

“Mmmph.” You try to move. It doesn’t really work.

“Once more,” Jake says kindly. “Just one, and you can rest.”

 _One more what_ , you think through your exhaustion.

Then Jake pulls you up from the floor, and you go _oh_.

You don’t have anything left to give, can’t even hold yourself up. Which seems to suit Jake fine as he settles you against the sofa. You’re on your knees, and he pushes you to lay tiredly against the cushions.

He hasn’t come yet, you think, and shudder all over. “J’ke,” you mumble, laying your head on the sofa because you can’t hold it up any longer.

“I’m right here,” Jake soothes, palming your spine. It cascades down, loaned energy that makes you groan as it insinuates into your body. He makes it so easy, it’s… a lot to think about. How obedient you can be for him.

Your fingers tighten on the old sofa, and you wearily look back at him. “It’s so much,” you tell him, vague and not quite together.

“You can do it. I just want one more.” His hips settle against yours, his dick dragging against you slowly, and your eyes fucking roll up. “I know you can take it.”

“Fuck,” you sigh, and heave yourself up against the sofa, dragging yourself up with your shaky grip. Jake holds you, cupping your ribs, and lets you shift around. Whatever he’s pushed into you is a liquid heat in your veins, circulating slowly, and your lips part around a moan that keeps coming and coming as it burns you up inside, sets you alight down to your goddamn toes.

“Easy,” Jake murmurs, and cants his hips against yours again, hard reminder of the business at hand. “Easy, sweetheart.”

You moan at him, and fold your arms, pulling up. Jake puts a hand on your shoulder, drags you back down against him, and you can’t _stop_. You’re writhing and useless, so out of your head you’re in another time zone.

You hear Jake _sigh_ , deep and long, before he reaches and grabs his belt from the pile of clothes on the arm of the sofa. “It’s alright, Dirk.” He kisses your hair before taking your hands and wrapping them up, the solid band of leather securing your arms tightly. You moan again, ducking your head as he kisses your ear. “You’re doing so well, buttercup, top marks as always. Just let me help you a bit, alright?”

Nodding, you press back against him.

“How,” Jake asks quietly. “How did I ever let such a pluperfect gent out of my grasp?”

He drops your arms, and you’re… stuck. The belt has you secured, the binding is _solid_ somehow. You pull, confused, and the metal buckle feels heavy as a ship’s anchor all of a sudden, dipping the cushion and keeping you stretched out over the sofa. A few experimental tugs get you no further away, and Jake laughs softly against your hair.

Then he takes hold of your hips and tilts them so he can slide right back into you, so smooth and deep your eyes roll at the sensation. You’re filled up to your fucking lungs and pull uselessly against the belt as you take his entire cock inside. With his hands holding your hips exactly where he wants them and your arms locked in place, you’re right there, stuck, kneeling spread for him and helpless.

You muffle your wordless cry against the cushion, and nearly choke on it when he fucks into you again. Every ounce of control has been pried out of your grip, and you know it wasn’t a quick process. More like metal clasps heated gradually and slowly over the weeks until they gave way for Jake. You’re in his hands, fully, and you can’t even hold on as he takes you, grasping at empty air with nothing in reach.

He could destroy you. But you trust him not to, or to at least put you back together again after. Either way sounds fucking _good_.

You’re hard again, which should be impossible, but _fucking faerie bullshit_. Your cock bobs drunkenly in the air; you can’t move, can’t even get close enough to rub off against the professorial tweed of the sofa. Jake holds you in place as he powers into you again and again, and you just have to take it and feel your toes curl, your breathing hitch, the damp feeling on your face.

You’re coming _apart_ , the kind of fuck that can’t be anything but magic.

With just a moment’s pause, Jake shifts, curling over you, his chest against your back. He lets go of your hips to wrap an arm around your waist, another up across your chest to grip your shoulder. It’s a hold, and you still can’t move, but now you can feel him gasping against you. “Dirk. _Dirk Strider_ ,” he invokes, and your eyes roll up in your goddamn head.

“Uh,” you manage, the vaguest affirmative. _You’ve reached the voicemail of Dirk Strider, however I’m busy being fucked into another plain of existence right now…._

“ _Dirk_ ,” he says, and that struck-bell feeling rings through you. “You’re all mine.”

You got nothing left, so you just nod, and get a kiss against your ear for it.

“All mine,” Jake says, tight and intent, between the beats of his hips. “Your big bright heart, all mine. Dirk, oh.”

He lean back and kisses the knot at the base of your neck.

And it _burns_.

You stop breathing, stop _thinking_ as the sensation catches up with you. From the white hot press of his lips, something unfurls over your skin. A flash of needle sharp pain ripples out over you, and extends long fingers outward to encircle your neck, to touch delicately to your clavicle, then back up to your shoulders to spread out rapidly, a phoenix’s pinions fanning out and settling in stinging brands halfway down your biceps, along your shoulder blades, down to lick at your spine.

For one blinding instant, five seconds that wrack your body like a storm, it hurts like a motherfucker.

Then Jake pulls back, and the relief breaks like a dam, like tempered metal thrust into water.

The sensation is so intense, you come again, your entire body caught in a moment of clenched shock as you spill onto the floor and against the sofa.

Then, you’re done. You are just fucking _done_ , and slump, dead weight propped up between your arms and knees. You have _nothing left_.

Distantly you can feel Jake shaking against you, and the filthy drip of his come down your thigh, but honest to fucking god, you are so done. Jake is speaking to you softly, sweetly, and the sound is so nice, but the words mean nothing to you.

You feel like you’ve been smashed to pieces against the concrete, then put back together, your cracks and breaks sealed with gold.

It’s good, but also?

Fuck everything, you are going to pass the fuck out now.

 

* * *

 

You sleep like the dead for a while, exhausted.

Eventually, you wake up. You know Jake’s bedroom by the color of the light through the curtains and the smoke smell. You know where you are. Good.

You open your eyes long enough to look at the clock and do some fast calculations. Dragging a hand down your face, you groan. "Jake."

The arms wrapped around your waist tighten for a beat. You sigh and reach back to jab him with a finger. "Jake."

Jake whines and presses his face against your shoulders. That makes you flinch; it kind of hurts? Whatever. You keep poking him. "Dude, you've kidnapped me again. Only fair you go get my stuff."

"What?" Jake asks, overpronouncing the word in that way that means he's not even remotely awake.

"My stuff. It's at the hostel. Go get it. Least you could do."

"Dirk, I'm... I'm very comfortable."

You kick him. Gently. Okay, not really.

Jake heaves a sigh and sits up. "Right, mmhm, what?"

"My things. I got two bags. Go get them. And bring them back here. I gotta email Jane and... shit." You rub your face, then bury it back in your pillow. "Later."

"Oh, you get to continue to layabout, but I have to go. I’ll have you know, Mr. Strider, I had to carry _you_ upstairs, the very show of devotion you would not offer me before, and now! Now, you want me to get dressed and go out in the _cold_ and--"

You wing a pillow in the direction of his voice and grin at the resulting sound of fluff-on-face impact. "Yeah. That's how it works after I find you all decrepit and fuck you back to vitality."

"Fine. I'll be back soon."

You hum vaguely at him and shut your eyes again, idly reaching up to rub your shoulder. It stings. You're too tired to investigate further, just want to roll over and go back to sleep.

When you try to, onto your back to turn over, you yelp indignantly at the sudden pain that fans out over your shoulders with the pressure. You sit up quickly and clap a hand against where it hurts, then whip your hand back again because _fuckfuckfuck, ow_.

As much as you want to lay around and do nothing for a little while longer, you’re also sort of afraid of laying back down, at the possible ensuing pinpricks all over.

You heave yourself out of bed, bracing on Jake’s dresser as you hiss against the sting. Okay, however the hell you were even sleeping before, you don’t know. Now, you move gingerly, trying not to shift too much as you walk to the en suite and flick on the light.

It’s there, about a half hour later, Jake finds you, making a conspicuous amount of noise as he returns and dumps your bags in the bedroom. “Dirk? I’ve gotten your things and checked you out of the hostel. Took a bit of-- well, effort, but it’s handled. Where’ve you gone? You’re here, aren’t you?”

There’s a small fissure of worry in his voice. You remember last time you wandered off, how fucking badly that went. You bet he’s thinking about the same thing. You turn your head as little as possible to call out, “In here,” to him.

You’re busy staring at the mirror, at the sight of your bare skin, now quite a bit _less_ bare.

Reaching over your shoulders and down a few inches of your arms is a curling spray of ivy and delicate flowers and pointy leaves. They seem to drape over you like a mantle, continuing halfway down your back, against the sharp line of your shoulder blades, and forward to frame your clavicle with symmetrical, ornate curls.

The design is subtle, a mix of shadow thrown by your own skin and lines of pink and red against your pale complexion. They’re like old wounds already months into the healing process, but still quite vulnerable and unhappy to be touched.

It’s scarification, perfectly burned into you. It’s gorgeous, and hypnotic. You’ve spent too long already staring at the mirror, trying to follow all the details, as much as you can see without a second mirror. On your back, it’s out of sight, and you can only _feel_ it reaching down, framing your spine.

You drag your eyes away and see Jake leaning on the doorjamb, his hand over his mouth, eyebrows lifted.

“Whoops?” You ask him.

Jake looks thoroughly chastised as he edges in behind you, taking your elbow to turn your arm carefully, looking over the elaborate linework raising your skin. He touches the triangle point of one outlined leaf and it stings.

“Ouch,” you say dryly, looking at him in the mirror.

“Oh, dry up, I’m just… having a look-see.” You can feel his fingertips tracing the unbroken skin just beyond the design, a few walking fingers over the gaps and loops within it. Taking a breath, you lean your arms on the sink and hold still as he takes it all in.

Brusquely, he puts his hand in your hair, urges your head to hang, and leans in close enough to examine his handiwork, you can feel his breath against the marks.

He mumbles something. You start to turn your head to look at him, then wince and stop. “What was that?”

“I said that I _did_ warn you, alright?” Jake says a little testily.

You turn around, eyebrows lifted. Jake doesn’t meet your eyes, instead turns his attention to the curved lines that cast down to your collarbone. You wait him out. He sighs. “I told you. If you did this again.”

Yeah. You remember the hot intense feeling of _yes please_ that came with the promise, that if you gave yourself to him again, it wouldn’t be a collar he put on you.

“Okay. So what _is_ it?”

Jake shrugs with hilariously forced casualness. “Same old, just a bit more reliable than the trinket I gave you. Once it finishes healing, anyway. Normally these sorts of things are done more slowly but, well, you had me well fried and I might’ve gotten a bit carried away.” He huffs out a sigh. “Here, let me get in there, I’m sure I have something to help. I’ll get you taken care of.”

You’re gently hipchecked to the side and stand there, trying to keep still so not to fucking agitate anything, as Jake paws through the medicine cabinet (which is _suspiciously_ deep, but: faerie). He takes out a little pot of ointment and a few unlabeled powders.

“So this isn’t going to choke me out, right?”

Jake shoots you a baleful look. “That was an _accident_.”

“Ergo, this wasn’t,” you conclude, pointing to the mark. Though _mark_ seems woefully inadequate for what you’ve got. Maybe you’ll find a fittingly mystical proper noun for it soon.

“Oh, go lay down. Carefully! Don’t hurt yourself.”

You roll your eyes, but obey, slipping out of the bathroom and back to bed. This time, you’re cautious, grabbing some pillows to strategically place before you lay down again. You still wince a few times, but it’s better now, propped up on your chest, your arms folded tentatively to wrap around one pillow without lifting too much and angering all the designs across your shoulders.

After a few minutes, Jake joins you, sitting at your hip and putting a hand on your spine, under the mantle of scars. You shut your eyes, letting out a deep breath.

Jake hums, appreciative. “What?” you ask.

“Hm?” He starts dabbing the balm on your skin. It’s cool to the touch, like a gel, but thicker. Fair-sized dollops of the stuff are tapped to your skin sporadically across your wingspan before Jake sets the little pot on the bedside table and starts spreading it around. It’s an instant relief against the inflamed lines, and you sigh.

He’s humming again, snatches of tune and contentment vibrating out from his lips. You grunt at him vaguely.

“Nothing, sweetheart. I’m just… happy.” His fingers are so careful as he spreads the balm further, ensuring it covers every bit of hurt you have. “You were always such a choice bit of calico, but this is… an especially affecting look for you.”

You snort. “What, covered in some arcane body mod version of your name? Is that what it means? _If found, return to Jake?_ ”

“English.”

“What?” None of it looks like lettering to you, but maybe it’s some ridiculously ornate super-calligraphy--

“My _Name_ , Dirk, come on now,” Jake says fondly. “Jake English, née Harley.”

You… can hear it. Or feel it, in every burned line on your skin, in the cords tethering you to him, in your heart. The syllables and sounds are dense and heavy to the ear, like… molasses, honey and bastard whiskey, like ether. “ _Jake English_ ,” you repeat back, and _that_ feels like magic.

“Don’t throw that around, if you please,” he says, a faint tremble in his voice, tapping an unmarked bit of your shoulder for emphasis. “But keep it in mind. If you ever need me and I’m not around, you can speak it and I’ll hear it, anytime and anywhere.” He clears his throat. “Just… a bit of turnabout. Because I do appreciate this. You. Trusting me, and all.”

You have the Name of a faerie boy, who loves you, and who probably owns you in a nearly irrevocable way. Who probably _did_ burn a mark of ownership into your body, like a _Property Of_ tramp stamp, because you’re _his_ to keep.

And who fusses over the burns sweetly, taking care of you as you recover. It’s a singular thing, something impossible and true. It’s pretty much exactly what you wanted, as fucked up as that is.

Eventually, Jake’s just petting you very gingerly. There’s a sting to it, but it’s numbed and cooled, the fiery pain quenched and leaving the almost compelling feeling of poking at a bruise. He’s so careful, adds more from the pot as he works it into your skin, never letting his hand catch or chafe.

You take a deep breath. You could sleep. But. “I’ve got to message Rox. Let her know she’s not picking me up in New York after all. And Jane, to… explain somehow.”

“Your friends,” Jake says warmly. “That sounds like fun. You’ll want to go see them, right?”

“Can you do that? Before, you were--”

“I’m, as you so poetically put it, fucked back to vitality. We can go wherever you’d like. Though I’d prefer somewhere warm before the season truly changes.”

You lift your head a bit. “Not until all this shit is healed. They’re gonna be asking me a lot of goddamn questions as it is for cancelling my flight. I show up looking like this, and… I don’t know what they’ll do, but you’re talking about two women with a lot of resources and ideas. Ain’t gonna be anything good.” You smirk wryly. “Especially with… with you, uh, with me.”

“With me with you?” Jake echoes back with mirth.

“Shut up.”

“You’ll happily sell your soul to a fae, but god forbid the word _boyfriend_ passes your lips like a thief in the night.” He taps your upper back for emphasis.

“Christ,” you mutter, because yeah, that’s a really fucking complicated brand of commitment phobia. A thought occurs to you. “You aren’t going to pull any faerie debt magic on them, okay?”

“DIrk,” Jake sighs, and pets the small of your back with his vaguely oiled hand. “I have my hands _quite_ full with you. I’ve no intentions to drawing thrall on anyone. I find it really tedious. They’d have to throw themselves in my keeping like you did, and I can’t say for sure, since I’ve not made their acquaintance yet, but I don’t imagine they’re as foolish as you are.”

That really shouldn’t make you feel all warm and fucking fuzzy inside, and yet, here you are. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll heal me up, then go see Rox and Jane. Then… New Zealand?”

Jake gasps in quiet delight. “Oh, yes, I like this plan.”

You have a plan. You have the beginning of a life.

You have a metaphysical leash and someone who will keep you from… what you used to have instead. You’re not an idiot, and are well aware of how out of your depth you are, like a plane crash in the middle of the Atlantic kind of out of your depth.

But.

You feel as though something living in your chest has been gentled, gone calm and soft after years and years clawing feral at your ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to the discord for all the support and kindness and enthusiasm, to cale for the bolstered inspiration, to storm for requesting magical multiple orgasms and to loft for augmenting that with tantric binding magic. and to chisk for asking for a run down of dirk's "fae speedrun" this chapter.
> 
> i promise the next thing i write will be halfway respectable. unless it's jake and dirk going to see roxy and roxy being all "what the fuck, you went on vacation, got bodymodded to the max and got a boyfriend who i think is also your dom, what the fuck, dirk"
> 
> i'm on tumblr at the same name. see ya. 
> 
> /fingerguns and a wink
> 
>  **ETA:** By request, [an explanation of the ethics of this fic,](http://callmearcturus.tumblr.com/post/153822391570/please-please-do-ramble-about-the-ethics-and-the) for the curious.


	12. bonus: on magical theory and larceny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> b-b-b-b-bonus round
> 
> post-main story. sorry it's not the obligatory "jake meets the women of dirk's life," i haven't figured it out yet.

You have _The Tough Guide to Fantasyland_ on your tablet, propped up on your lap with your feet in Jake's lap when you finally ask, "So what was the deal with the hostel back in Dublin?"

"Hm?" Jake hums, his eyes still on the TV.

There's a movie on, _The Grand Budapest Hotel_. Today is one of those wonderful days when Jake is in the mood for _good_ movies. Not that he can tell the difference, apparently. Sometimes you think it'd because he was born so long ago and temporally transplanted into the modern era, and thus has no barometer for cinematic quality. Other times, you think Jake's just weird.

But the mix of Dianna Wynne Jones and Wes Anderson's vision of the hospitality industry has you thinking. Normally, you try not to interrupt Jake's movie watching in case he decides he missed too much and wants to rewatch. But... You don't mind rewatching this one, so: "The hostel. You hated that place. It's like a..." You look for the term, leafing through the mental catalog of Fae Shit you're building up. "Liminal space?"

"It's not, actually," Jake answers. "That's something else."

"Why not?"

Jake's nose wrinkles, but his eyes stay fixed on the movie. "It's difficult to explain. Liminality is... leaving one place and having not quite arrived in the next place. A point of transition and transformation and other such words."

"Okay. But isn't that fucking _exactly_ what a hotel is?"

"No, there's... No motion in the ocean, there's nothing. It's..." Sighing loudly, Jake reaches out and actually _pauses_ the film. Normally he just lets it run and rewatches. It's strange to have caught his attention so easily. You put your tablet to sleep and set it aside, meeting his diverted attention head on. "It's a bit like trying to describe color to the blind, I don't think I'll do a grand job of it."

"A hotel's a place between places, between being a visitor in a place and a resident of that place," you say, nudging him along.

"But it's like stasis, not like a robin's egg or a crystalis. And besides, there's worse things going on in that sort of place," he explains with a sour expression, like the very existence of hotels offends him. "It's almost... Inert. But actually it's the opposite."

"It's ert," you say, smirking.

"Don't be fresh with me, Strider," he says without heat. "But figure it's like a perversion of a good idea. Subways! Those are the best liminal spaces. Movement and inertia and all that lot, getting from one place to the next, being in motion even if you're sitting still."

"What about a place like a cruise ship, then. It's a hotel on the water, it's moving."

Jake glares at you, lips pressed together. "I... don't know. Why do you think I'm an expert?"

"Faerie."

"Mortal." He drums his fingers on the bone of your ankle, thinking. "Imagine that... There's a ritual or some hogswash you need to do, and it calls for-- for thyme."

"Time?"

"Thyme, with the y. It calls for thyme, and you can either use a freshly cut sprig from your garden box or a decade old ground up dash from your gran's McCormick bottle. Which do you pick?"

You lay your head back on the armrest and think. "Well, depends. Does my gran's love and experience and weird mothball smell lend to the ritual's power?"

"No."

"Fine, then the Real McCoy from the windowbox."

"Why?" Jake asks, like a fucking substitute teacher who's trying to drag you along to the right conclusion so they don't have to stay after the bell.

"Uh, purity of the ingredient? What, does all magic have to be done like that? If I make my draught of dreamless sleep in a crockpot because cast iron cauldrons are expensive, I'm a bad witch?"

"No, that's-- a crockpot is fine, that's a completely different discussion." He sighs again. "It's less about purity, more about contamination. Outside elements that skew the execution of the whole malarkey."

"Okay. So. Hotels."

"Hotels are places where people bring their worldly possessions and pack them up in borrowed rooms with the illusion of privacy and safety. It's where they sleep, but don't cook their meals. It's where they rest, but only in waiting. They're awful homes and yet are too confining to be a liminal space. It's not transition, but suspension. If you have a liminal _experience_ in a hotel, it's despite the place being bloody awful for it, against adversity."

You nod. "And no threshold."

"And no threshold!" Jake crows. "They are so unsafe, I don't know how mortals stand them. It's the opposite of the fresh sprig of thyme, it's overloaded with meaning and people. If you bring anything to that space, you don't _own it_ anymore, it's just a piece of the hotel detritus. _You_ barely belong to you. It's so easy to lose yourself in those places. It's not liminal enough to say the item or the person belongs to the grand beast of the thing, and it's not someone's property enough for them to make a claim, it's but awful middle space between the middle space and the proper space, just a sidestep from either truth."

"You stole my fucking passport, didn't you?"

Jake _yelps_ in surprise, taken completely off guard, knocked out of his fussy tirade. His eyes are wide and swing to _truly_ focus on you for the first time today, lips parted. "Erm, um!"

"I fucking knew it," you say, snorting. "Things don't have owners in hostels. You swiped my passport when I was in the shower."

"How did you--!" Jake starts, then looks down at your feet, cheeks dark. "Oh, you absolute devil, did you set me off like that just to get me to admit it?"

"No. I really wanted to know what your deal with the hostel was. You making it pretty damn clear you stole my passport was just a bonus."

"Well." He's sullen, mumbling now. "That's sort of the point. Nothing there was _yours_ exactly. It was all up for grabs. Including you, much to my dismay. And I just... needed more time."

"For a ritual?" You nudge him with your knee, gently.

"Haha, apparently!" He glances at you nervously through his lashes, then meets your eyes cautiously. "Time, not thyme. Are you upset?"

"No. But that was one hell of a trick, asshole. I think you owe me."

"Own you," Jake corrects, lifting an eyebrow and closing his hand around your ankle, thumb rubbing up and down the smooth skin there.

"You can owe me and own me at the same time. Ain't mutually exclusive."

He stares at you unblinkingly as he considers that. "Huh. You may have a point there, clementine. When'd you get so damned clever?"

"Always have been, ever since I sprang out of my father's forehead, fully formed." Then, you pause, thinking about it. "That's a joke. I'm not-- does Athena, like... exist?"

Jake shrugs, picking up the remote again. "Dunno. We can go to Greece sometime. Try to find out. That'd be a fun venture. But for now, may I?"

You nod and pick up your tablet again as Jake returns to his movie.

A moment later, he groans. "I don't remember what was happening. This one's too clever by half, just like you. I'm gonna start it over."

You smile to yourself, and say nothing, settling back into your book and the warm feeling of Jake's hands roaming your skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to the discord, for letting this lead to a fascinating diversion into "okay but what about if you AirBnB your house, how does that affect your threshold"


End file.
